


Bathed in Blood

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Series: Path of the (Un)Righteous [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Biting, Complicated Relationships, Disturbing Themes, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, SladeRobinWeekend 2019, Threats of Violence, proceed at your own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-02-04 20:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18612049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: It was about to be one perfect night. An easy job, that went well. Money to follow soon enough. A Pretty Bird calling. Asking to see him as soon as possible.Yes. One perfect night.Right...?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!~
> 
> Day 1 of Sladerobin Weekend 2019, and this here (well, the first two chapters of this) form my own entry. :) My chosen prompt for today is **Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics.**
> 
> Before you proceed, I ought to warn you: mind the tags. This is an ABO story, with elements and themes that usually come with it, and yes, a lot of disturbing parts as well. Please, consider this your warning.

Slade’s cleaning up his riffle, inhaling those wretched fumes of Gotham's. Watches with a grin under his mask, as Nightwing performs one of those outrageously graceful landings of his, and instantly walks towards him, without slowing his pace at all.

“Slade,” he says, voice unusually glassy.

“Pretty bird,” Slade offers back, taking the mask off.

It’s not an easy thing to simply forget how good - _good_ being a vastly belittling word in this case- Grayson looks, and yet, every single time, he somehow manages to appear even more tempting in Slade’s eyes. He wraps a strong arm around his waist, pulling him flush over his chest, longing to feel every single inch of him. Dick lets him do that, even though, as Slade soon realizes, he’s somewhat stiff. Something tensed in his form.

“How come you’re in Gotham?” he asks.

Slade hums, rubbing a hand up and down his neck. “Maybe I just missed you.”

Dick clicks his tongue. “Then you’d come to Blüdhaven, you jackass. I just _happened_ to be here.”

Slade smirks. “Business,” he says.

Dick makes a grimace, arching his neck a little more, letting Slade’s hand wrap around it and give a light squeeze. “Do I want to know?”

“I’d guess not.”

It’s an agreement they’ve established early on, one of the very first times _this_ ever happened between them.

It was a job for Slade, and a mission for Dick. Came across one another. Engaged into a fight, naturally. Slade was able to put him down, and yet, still willing to save his ass from his asshole co-workers at the time. A little more fighting then, just a smidge. And suddenly, there was chemistry there. _Heavy_ chemistry. And they didn’t really care to resist that.

It wasn’t the first time Slade found himself attracted to another alpha, but it was, most definitely, way more powerful than any previous case. To Dick, on the other hand, it was something completely new, this feeling coming up on the surface. Sexual relationships between alphas were generally looked down upon, but instinct was instinct after all. They were both able to agree upon one thing: the sex was beyond words could describe, and neither felt like completely giving that up.

However, certain rules needed to apply, certain precautions to be taken in this on-and-off thing. Whatever they did would be kept strictly between them. Slade didn’t mind. Keeping dirty, lustful little secrets is always kind of amusing, and he liked having this -having _Grayson_ \- just to himself, _all_ to himself, at least at those times they were together.

Small talk regarding Slade’s missions and ministrations had also been proclaimed as out of the question. First time they tried it, they ended up into a huge verbal argument -and not even the fun kind. Ever since that incident, they agreed they’d never again bring work talks into their thing.

Everything was fine, as long as this was kept away from their ‘jobs’.

He’s just started nibbling at his jaw, when he feels a hand lightly -but firmly- pushing against his chest. Grayson breaks free from his grasp and takes a step back. “Not here for that, Slade. Not in the mood."

“No?”

Dick shakes his head, eyes on the floor of the rooftop, taking another step back, and Slade just now realizes how _tired_ he looks. Even his usually bright and colorful voice now comes out dull and flat. Like he hasn’t slept in days, or as if he’s coming out of a battle.

Slade scratches his currently unshaved chin. “Well, since it was _you_ that called me, care to explain?”

Dick’s obviously hesitant, for some reason. He uncomfortably crosses his arms over his chest, like he has no idea what else to do with them. “I want to ask you about something,” he eventually sprawls out.

“… and you couldn’t just say it on the phone, because…?”

His face is uncharacteristically serious, so Slade simply sighs and raises his hands in the air. “Well, go ahead, spit it out, kid,” he urges.

Dick takes his time, inhaling deeply once, before he opens his mouth. “Have you, perhaps… happened to have met Jason recently?”

“Jason? Hood?” he clarifies, and Dick nods. “Nah, no, kid. Haven’t come across him in a while, at least four, five months or so.”

Dick tenses. “Are you sure?” he insists, voice coming out a little desperate. “Not even… I don’t know, in some… secret place or whatever, that I myself wouldn’t normally… know about?”

“Secret place?” he scoffs. “Jeez, kid. What’d you think, that we’ve got a bad-slash-neutral-guys club we all gather up and talk shit about you _heroes_? No, I haven’t seen your brother in a very long time.”

Dick is the perfect picture of devastation. Like he’s just shattered down all his hopes and dreams. “And you haven’t heard anything regarding him either?”

“Look, what the hell is this? If you’re not clear, how do you expect me to help?”

He takes a breath, his fingers digging into his own arms. “None of us has heard anything of him in about three months.”

Slade raises his eyebrow. “Wow. And you just _now_ figured that something might be wrong…?”

“No, idiot,” he growls angrily. “It’s _you_ that hear about it _just_ now.”

Slade shrugs. “Maybe he needed some time off. Without all of you busting his balls. I’d guess things between the Bat and him aren’t always peachy… and you _do_ know you talk enough to give someone migraines, Grayson. If he just wanted to take it easy for a while…”

“Jason… he does that, alright? Sometimes he does choose to disappear for a while, but we’re talking about, I don’t know, _a week_ , Slade, not three months straight, with zero communication.”

He suddenly has a feeling of discomfort burdening his chest. A memory, dominated by a river of sweat and a shade of red. Something raw and disturbing, buried deep inside where he’d hoped nothing would ever trigger it. He felt it now though, like a wild, feral creature, grinning, clawing at his insides, wanting to be let out.

He shakes his head, as if wanting to shut it down before he speaks. “Are you sure you’re not missing something?”

“We’re not missing anything. This here was my last card,” he exhales, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Then I hate to say this, but if that’s the case… you need to start looking for answers among your enemies. Well… other than me.”

Knowing Grayson, he believes _that_ just sent shivers down his spine. “Please, don’t say that,” he murmurs.

“Plead all you like, you know I’m right.”

Dick winces, mumbles something along the lines of “oh, God,” and starts nervously pacing up and down. Slade sighs. “Look. Good news is, considering the psychopaths you’re usually dealing with, if he _had_ been dead…”

“Slade!” he exclaims.

“… you’d already know. They’d come to the Bat bragging about it. So. He’s most probably alive. This means you still have time. Don’t know how much… but you have at least some. _If_ he’s actually in trouble, that is, and not simply sick and tired of all of you and your ethics systems. I wouldn’t blame him.”

Dick shoots him a poisonous look, not at all relieved.

“Don’t overstress about it for no reason,” he suggests. “I’d figure Todd is an alpha that knows how to take care of himself.”

“Jason’s not…”

Dick stops abruptly, blushing a little, the perfect picture of someone that had almost let a very important secret leak.

“What?” he encourages.

“Nothing. Forget about it,” he murmurs instantly. “Just… if you learn anything at all, give me a call, alright? I… I need to talk to Bats.”

Slade critically clicks his tongue. “Seriously, he should be keeping a better track record of you all.”

“Oh, _you’re_ one to talk!” he suddenly snaps at him. “As if you yourself have a great history in protecting your children!”

Grayson knows it’s a mistake even before the sound reaches to Slade. It actually takes him quite a while to fully realize what the kid just said. Once the words hit him, a jolt of electricity vibrating violently into his bones, causing his expression to gradually go a probably quite frightening shade of blank, Dick’s already covering his own mouth with one hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Slade chooses to let this slide, because it’s Grayson, because he’s so very upset, and because he knows the apology is deeply honest.

The words still linger though. And the sting burns. A whole lot more than he’d ever care to admit, even to himself.

He slowly turns around and picks up the riffle, saying nothing. Knowing there won’t be silence for much longer.

“Slade, I’m sorry, come on,” Dick says in agony, and he comprehends his light footsteps approaching. “I didn’t mean that, I…”

He turns to look at him, and, _boy_ , he’s gotta be looking at least somewhat threatening, because Grayson takes a step back as he throws the gun on his shoulder. He just stares at him for a few moments, before he opens his mouth. “Go look for your brother, kid.”

“Slade…”

He leaves, before he hears another word that will most probably trigger only unwanted things right there.

Grayson doesn’t follow. He’s smarter than that.

On his way to the _actual_ destination, he passes his time learning in how many more ways he’s able to hate how his chest’s feeling so heavy and tight.

And trying to shove images deep, back inside.

 

*** 

 

_“We’re striving for perfection. Since you clearly have no interest in **ever** being the best, then yes, I guess this job suits you just fine.”_

_Grant looks at him, bright, ice-blue eyes burning with all that hatred Slade’s accustomed to receiving, but it’s actually Wintergreen that steps up to speak._

_“Qurac is anything **but** an easy place to engage in any mission, Slade.”_

_“Don’t bother,” Grant snorts, crossing arms over his chest. “It’s typical of him. Never pleased, no matter what.”_

_Slade runs his fingers across the cover of the file laid in front of him on the table. “You’ve been there, done that. If you linger in the same pattern of missions, you’re not getting any better. You need to escalate,” he points at the other file, the one he brought in himself._

_Grant refuses to shift or lower his gaze. He’s ravaged by fury, but still able to restrain it. Then, with slow, calm moves, he reaches out and takes Slade’s file. Wild, red font over the cover: **SCORPIO – HIGHLY CLASSIFIED.**_

_“You want more blood, is that it? Fine. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you so much that you’ll be able to **bathe** in it.”_

_Grant turns and leaves the room. He hears the front door slamming behind him._

_He later recalls this was the last time he’d ever seen him…_

_(… standing.)_

_“Slade,” Billy says quietly a few moments later._

_“Don’t.”_

_“You’re pressing him…”_

_“Don’t—”_

_“… **way** too much. Infiltrating Scorpio? Really?” Wintergreen growls. “We do need the clues, but the organization has grown **savage**. You haven’t come across them in a while. If they find out…”_

_“They won’t.”_

_“They’re only accepting alphas. Strictly,” he indicates, eyebrows knitted._

_Slade doesn’t react to the indirect warning -or is it an accusation?_

_Grant had presented as an omega at thirteen, and had been posing as an alpha basically ever since. ‘Insufficient’ had been far too mild of a word to describe both his and Adeline’s parenting skills, but at least **that** they’d been able to teach him, able to handle, able to perfect. His size thankfully helped -he’d grown big and strong, larger than the average omega. The attitude also grew on him, in time. There were effective enough ways to cover scent. And - **and** \- to prevent heats._

_Other than himself, Adeline, Joey and Bill, the only people that knew about this had been one or two very trustworthy doctors._

_It had never been a matter of choice, for things to work this way; it was a necessity. Even if Grant hadn’t chosen to follow a similar path as his and Addie’s, their own activities had been more than enough to create an urgent need for this to be the case. Otherwise, with all the people himself alone had been dealing with at times -the **enemies** he’d made- it was doubtful his firstborn would have ever made it to adulthood unharmed. What happened to Joey was a wild proof of that -and Joey is a beta, not an omega._

_Taking precautions was one thing. Other than that, his son being an omega was no excuse for him to stay back. It didn’t change anything. Enhanced it, really -the absolute need for him to get better, get stronger, get tougher. Tough, yes. He had to **make** him tough. Teach him how to be, not a terminator, but a survivor. Without this, he wouldn’t last a day out there._

_Grant hated him, of course. He never understood, because he didn’t know. He didn’t have a clue on what usually happened to omegas out there. He’d simply heard things, while Slade had **seen** things._

_Yes. Grant hated him. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was for him to last. He had learned, eventually, and now he could keep himself safe. He had been around alphas and dealing with them his entire life. No one had ever been able to figure._

_He’d been able to fool them._

_“I’ll keep an eye on him, but nothing will happen anyway,” he only says. “He’ll manage.”_

 

 

_***_

 

 

The job is basically done. He’d ended this, three hours ago, long before Grayson came along. Easy target. New-found, slowly rising Gotham crime boss. One of those newbies overestimating themselves once they got just a little power.

Gotham’s big heads had grown quite impatient and increasingly nervous over the years. Not that he blamed them. They already had Batman busting their balls, plus the occasional gang wars between each other. Last thing they intended to put up with was additional new players messing around their feet.

He didn’t like Black Mask, honestly. Whenever there was an option, Slade avoided him. His head was way too messed up even by his own standards, and he never appreciated sadists to begin with. Too unpredictable. Too annoying. Too messy. No good people to work for -or with.

All that said, the man _paid_ , and paid handsomely. Couldn’t just let that slide.

So. The job is done. This is supposed to be the fun part. The one where the fucker suggests another job, maybe a collaboration, and he can let him ramble until he’s finished, while he waits for the rest of the money to show up in the account, so he could _then_ sardonically refuse.

Nobody bothers him as he makes his way to the office. Some goons retract a few steps back once they see him, stepping aside for him to pass. They know better than to do anything else.

Scent comes even before one of the guards at the door opens it for him. It grows impossibly powerful as he walks inside. Hits him with such force that he winces under his mask. Many things there -all of which are alarming. Alpha odors, rank, wild and aggressive, as well as omega scent, sour, heavy, bulging with confusion, with distress, with _fear_.

“Ah, Deathstroke. Come on in.”

He turns his head towards the sound of that drawling, delighted voice.

Mask is neat and cool in one of his fancy suits, seated cross-legged on one of the armchairs in the small, lavish parlor on the left, with a glass of whiskey in one hand. The other one, he runs through a boy’s hair.

Oh. Yeah. There is _a boy,_ a young man in there too. The omega scent he got.

He’s on his knees, his head bowed and pressed against the alpha’s thigh. He can only see his back from where he stands -and, despite the dim lighting, the scars marring it as well- but he’s pretty sure he must be stark naked in general.

Sure. Of course Black Mask wouldn’t mind exhibiting his pretty little sex slave like that.

Well… not _that_ little, he notes. The boy is quite big, quite muscular for omega standards.

Much like… someone else he used to know.

The room suddenly feels smaller around him.

“Come on, come on, join us!” Sionis prompts him, vigorously. “What are you drinking?”

“Don’t bother,” he responds, approaching. “I won’t be staying too long.”

He puts the riffle down, takes his sword off his back and sprawls comfortably into a nearby armchair before he removes his mask. He sees Roman’s eyes through the slits, and that’s enough to tell that the bastard _grins_ under his own.

“Once again, I must admit, it’s a pleasure, working with you,” Sionis offers, nails scraping over the boy’s scalp. “Always effective, always in time.” He sits up a little -the omega tenses, instantly. “Would you consider something more _permanent_? We can even start by tomorrow. I have something… quite important to proceed with.”

Slade holds back from sneering. Just as expected. The guy was worried about his life -and reasonably so. It was a common secret among their circles that Mask had managed pissing off quite a few of their own, lately. Slade recalls he’d found about at least two unimportant bounties put on his head. He figured, if he’d give it some time, more would come up by the day, far more interesting ones, that would make his trouble actually worth something. Wintergreen agreed to that and kept a restless eye on the matter.

The situation and the atmosphere in that room is dangerously tempting him to accept one of the lower ones, however.

“ _Permanent_ is not quite my style. But I’ll keep that in mind,” he offers.

Sionis snorts, clearly displeased, his fingers tightening a little through the boy’s hair. “Sure. You do that.” His hand then moves to grip the back of his neck, forcing him to move his head upwards. “And what do _you_ think, Jason? Can we try and find a way to convince Slade here, hmm?”

He doesn’t react to the name, it doesn’t instantly strike as anything alarming, but then he realizes he’s now able to see the boy’s bruised face, and… _and_ … and he knows who this is.

He’s certainly thinner than the last time he’d seen him, muscles toned down a bit. There are hickeys on his arched neck, some older ones, fainter, and some clearly fresh. Bitemarks too, red and vicious. There’s one in particular that stands out between the others, way deeper, way longer, fainter over the time that’s passed, but still standing out -claiming mark. There are more bites as the eye goes down, sprawled over his shoulders and upper arms. More bruises down his torso, between some older scars. They’re brown, faint yellow or deep purple, located for the most part on his hips and his waist.

Several seconds pass. His mind still tries to deny this, to tell him that this is bullshit, that such coincidences cannot just happen, and that this simply **_can’t_** be, because Todd is an alpha, a highly aggressive one, actually. He’s not…

_“Jason’s not—”_

… oh.

**_Oh._ **

“As for the introductions…”

“I know who he is,” he says quietly.

Mask is evidently annoyed that he’d just cut him from his attempted show-off like that, but apparently, he wouldn’t easily back up from trying. He obviously feels the need to brag about it, and no one can stand in his way.

“He’s been posing as an alpha, since… no clue. Since always, I guess? Since **_I_** know him, at the very least. There was, of course, something confusing, at times. Became crystal clear when his heat came along. Lucky me… he just happened to wake up in one of my beds at that time. Right, princess?” he purrs down at Jason. “He was unconscious, so it started before he could take some pill to prevent it. And no fake alpha colognes could ever cover the sweetness of a full heat, am I right?”

Mask nudges him a bit back. He then bends close, and presses his nose under Jason’s jaw, nuzzling at his scent glands and inhaling deeply. The boy gasps, a choked whimper coming from his throat as he tightly shuts his eyes. He swallows, but otherwise stays still.

Slade tenses, completely out of alpha instinct, feeling the hair at the back of his neck rising, and he barely holds back a snarl. He’s pretty close into reaching forward and grabbing the kid by the shoulders, shaking him roughly to make him snap out of whatever this is, scream at him to _fight_ , do what he does best -make that fucker suck dust. Hood is a fighter, dammit, omega or not. A warrior. He _knows_ what he can do. He’s _seen_ it, too many times for this situation to make even a little sense to him. He wonders how come he’s so uncharacteristically submitted and _quiet_ , before his gaze detects the needle marks at the inside of his forearm, among the bruises indicating that he has repeatedly been injected, and held down, in at least one occasion, very recently.

“Oh, that,” Sionis winces, seeing where his eyes have focused. “Yeah… those particular ones aren’t to my liking either, but… necessities, necessities. I’m afraid my boy’s still somewhat difficult at times. You’d expect that three months would have taught him better. What you gonna do about it.”

Three months. Three fucking months.

“That’s fine with me… it’s better, actually. Soooo much more fun. I don’t lack patience, after all. And trust me when I’m saying this, he’s _worth_ the trouble,” he grins, pressing a thumb over the boy’s lips until they reluctantly part, allowing him to slip his finger in that mouth. “Wanna find out?”

Three months.

At least it’s less than _six_.

“… ‘find out’?” he repeats, coldly.

“Sure,” the grin stands in its place. “I’m not big on sharing, I’ve only been passing him around in my men during his heat. Helped a lot to break him. Let’s just call this a special occasion. Consider yourself lucky.”

Slade feels anything _but_ lucky.

Sionis gets up from his seat, using his grip on the boy’s hair to manhandle him and push him right between Slade’s parted legs. Slade sits up a little, uncomfortably, but that monster of a man is far too preoccupied with Jason to notice. He looks down at him, running a hand through those rich, black strands. “Why don’t you show him our gratitude, hmm, baby?”

Jason shuts his eyes, evidently shaking, shoulders bowed and stiff, his arms hugging around his torso, as if this can protect him from this horrifying situation. When he doesn’t respond, Mask’s grip on his hair tightens again, and he pulls sharp enough to arch his neck.

“Jason?” he offers in a smooth, _extremely_ dangerous voice.

Jason manages to take one breath. “Yes, alpha," he whispers.

Mask’s phone starts to ring, causing Jason to flinch. He sighs and lets him go, tugging him forward, right at him. “Begin, while I’m at it. I’ll try not to lose much of the show.”

He answers the call, turning his back at them and moving towards his desk.

After a few moments of stillness, Jason moves closer, keeping his gaze low. Slade watches as his hands come and slide across his thighs, his touch nerveless and uncertain, despite his obvious try. When Slade doesn’t react, those slightly shaky hands move over his crotch and start unbuckling his belt, and… this is one of the most disturbing things he’s ever been a part of.

He leans forward and stops him, taking his wrists in his hands. By no means hard enough to cause him pain, but still, Jason freezes in shock, his posture being that of a person that’s expecting to be hit. He realizes he might _actually_ be hurting him, unintentionally. The skin under his hands feels dry, rough. He lets go almost immediately and sees the harsh, red marks around those wrists, indicating use of handcuffs.

Very carefully, he reaches out one hand towards him. The boy flinches a little, but doesn’t move away when Slade combs fingers through his hair.

“I… I’m sorry,” Jason manages to rasp out. “I didn’t mean to… if… if I did something wrong, Sla—sir,” he’s almost panicked to correct himself. “Sir…”

“It’s alright, kid,” he says, feeling his throat tight. “It’s alright, you know my name. You can say my name.”

Jason weakly shakes his head, swallowing, as his head turns a little, eyes moving as if to glance behind, where Roman still talks on his phone, messing around with some papers. Slade huffs, his hand moving to cup one side of the boy's face, thumb gently stroking his cheek. “Look at me, kid.”

Those stunning, blue grey eyes flicker up on his face. _Beautiful_. So very beautiful, despite them being tired, frightened, pained, and… _resigned_.

“Don’t be scared,” he tries to reassure him. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

He knows that Jason wants to believe that, but still smells the shadows of doubt and fear in him.

“Come closer, boy,” he orders calmly as he sits up, trying not to sound too commanding, or threatening.

Jason does as he’s told, not reacting when his hand then slips down to his neck, lightly squeezing over the back of it. He doesn’t make it hard enough to be painful, but simply relaxing, calling to his primal omega instincts.

It works.

Slade moves forward until they’re quite close, and his fingers start rubbing in round patterns at the base of his neck, on that terrible tension spot right there, thumb brushing next to his scent glands, just below his ear. It causes the boy to close his eyes and produce a soft sound. At the same time, he himself offers a low, steady, comforting rumble from the depths of his chest. Jason gasps, loosening out of instinct. His shoulders ease down as he sinks into relaxation, his breath gradually growing calmer, slower, deeper. It’s becoming exceptionally, heartbreakingly sweet when Jason leans into his hand, and he can’t but rest his lips on the boy’s forehead, breathing his scent. Still sharp (and he would imagine that Todd’s scent tends to be so interestingly sharp and spicy in general, unusual as it is for an omega), but faintly muskier now, as Jason inhales his own, calming alpha scent.

“Still haven’t started? What the hell are you waiting for?” Mask’s voice pierces through the air.

It’s enough to startle Jason into tension again, drawing a soft, quiet whine out of him as he curls to himself, and Slade only barely holds back a threatening growl headed to the other alpha in the room. All his instincts scream to protect and comfort, and it takes a great amount of effort and self-control to set them still.

Black Mask approaches again, with a smoking cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, and all he can do right now is give one last, gentle brush of his fingers at the back of Jason’s neck, let his lips linger on his forehead for just one more moment before he withdraws, feeling the boy’s hand suddenly gripping the back of his thigh.

It’s not as tight as to be uncomfortable. Jason is otherwise emotionless, but he reads all the agony and desperation claiming him in this gesture. He chooses not to react, uncertain what Mask would think of it, what could be the consequences on Jason. By no means does he want to provide yet another reason for him to further harm the kid.

“Well?” Mask exhales some smoke once he’s there.

“I’m not interested,” he responds expressionlessly and rests at the back of the chair again.

Sionis hums, raising his free hand to Jason’s hair again. His fingers then move down, tracing over that deep claiming mark at the side of his neck, just below his ear, and firmly pressing over it. Kid goes utterly still, completely limp, his hand falling from Slade’s thigh and curling over his stomach. “Did my boy do something to displease you, is that it? Because that can be easily dealt with.”

Slade looks at Jason’s still form, his once again blank eyes that are fixed on the carpet, possibly in a try to distance himself from everything that’s about to happen.

He’s done many horrible things in his life (and much more will most definitely follow), but never this. Never forcing himself on someone that absolutely doesn’t want him.

“I prefer it when I also have their consent to it,” he carefully chooses his words. “Their smell’s better, and they’re way more pleasant.”

“You don’t think Jason likes this?” He grabs the kid by the scruff, and Slade’s certain his grip is hard enough to bruise. “Did you hear that, baby? Go ahead, tell the man how much you want this.”

“Please, sir,” Jason instantly opens his mouth, and the voice that comes out is dull, tired and almost automatic. “Please, I want this.”

“There we go. Good boy,” he praises, smirking, before he turns his gaze at him. “See?”

Slade doesn’t comment on this tragic joke of an act, and, frankly, he doesn’t want to stay in that room a moment longer.

He straightens his back, trying not to look at Jason again. If he does, he’ll probably proceed on something irrational. “I trust that the matter of my payment has been taken care of.”

It’s a useless statement, since he’s already checked his device. Money’s on board.

“Naturally,” he assures, fingers digging into Jason’s flesh. “Too bad you won’t be sticking around. You’d find that my boy is… quite delicious.”

Slade stands, maybe a little more abruptly than planned, and puts his mask back on. Mask simply shrugs before he tugs harshly at Jason’s hair, forcing him up on his feet. The boy looks like he’d collapse right on spot if it wasn’t for his hold on him, which Sionis uses to drag him towards the desk in the middle of the room. He pushes him there, and Jason steadies himself as much as he can by gripping at the edge with both hands, shivering.

“Have a pleasant trip back to… wherever,” he says, pressing his form over Jason’s bare back, one hand still tightly through his hair, arching his neck. “And rethink of my offer, will you?”

He moves to the door. Watches, as Mask’s attention returns fully on Todd, who whimpers as a mouth is pressed at the back of his neck. His hand that holds the cigarette moves to clasp Jason’s hip, the smoking tuck dangerously close to bare flesh.

“Shh, it’s all right, I’m not angry. You’ve been good, sweetheart. So good for daddy,” he drawls. “Maybe I’ll even get you something to eat later. But first… first, we’re going to have some _fun_.”

Another gasp, and then a sharp scream and the smell of burning flesh, just before the door crushes closed behind him.

Breathe.

Don’t flip. Not yet.

Breathe.

_You want more blood, is that it? Fine. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you so much that you’ll be able to **bathe** in it._

 

 

_***_

 

 

_Grant has been missing for six months straight._

_It was his birthday two days ago. He’d just got twenty._

_Last time they talked, everything seemed normal. Stable. He was doing perfectly fine. Even better than Slade had anticipated._

_Then, nothing. Silence. Every sign of him… simply… gone. No threatening messages or any other kind of contact. No whispering words. Scorpio keeps working as if nothing ever happened, and those members of the organization he managed to get his hands on have absolutely no clue on who Grant or Ravager even is._

_Nothing._

_He often caught himself wishing for even bad news. Anything, really, as long as it was **news**. Anything but this torturous silence._

_Adeline threatens to kill him, burn him, cut off his dick and balls and feed them to rabid dogs. Joey still doesn’t have a clear picture of how serious things are, since they deliberately let him know only the basics, but he’s no idiot. They might not speak, but he knows. He **sees** them._

_Bill says nothing, simply does everything he has to, though he can’t contain himself from generously offering one of those bitter ‘I told you so’ glances every now and then. Like he needs a reminder._

_He thinks he might be losing weight himself._

_And now, finally -after six months- something comes up. Finally, someone who knows, and isn’t as stealthy as the others. Cracks under his knives and fists -quite literally, cracks, in many places. The guy heard someone of their own last week, in their annual meeting, talking about an omega bitch that gave them “quite a hard time”, before they’d figured what he actually was -a sudden heat was all it took. The guy doesn’t know details, hasn’t been there, hasn’t seen anything himself, but he’s giving a location._

_Ironically enough, just because the universe is that much of an asshole, it’s in Qurac. A base, somewhere among some stern, barren mountains._

_He’s just outside._

_No clues on how many men in there, but it doesn’t matter. At this point, he’s ready to murder an entire army._

_Grant’s birthday was two days ago. He knows this, and nothing else._

 

* * *

 

 

 

His hands tighten around the railing of the staircase leading down the rooftop of that random empty building. His knuckles turn white.

He’s boiling in rage, his heartbeat sharper than the usual. Feels like he can still see Todd’s eyes, filled with pain and resignation. All this fire he’d known him for so viciously snatched away from him. So similarly to…

_Fuck._

The railing bends under his hands, before he tears half of it off its place.

He steps back on the rooftop. Rests his fists over the short wall separating the solid ground from the abyss beneath and exhales.

His job there is done. What he _should_ be doing is preparing to leave this shit-pile of a city immediately. Only…

_… so much blood…_

He grunts.

He _could_ give a call to Grayson, out of good will, considering the thing going on between them.

And then what?

This wasn’t just about Todd. It was about Sionis as well.

He knows Grayson. He knows the Bat. What would they do, exactly? Storm in the room, generously provide Mask with a few punches, then throw him to Arkham or Blackgate or Belle Reve for a couple of months, until he made his escape and proceed on thriving once again. And they’d call this justice.

He snorts. Why on earth should _he_ even bother? Todd wasn’t…

_… you’ll be able to **bathe** in it._

He closes his eyes. Draws one long breath.

Despite everything going on with Dick, the Bats were his enemies. This… this wasn’t his fucking business.

Unless, of course… unless he **_turned_** **_it_** into business.

The two contracts still stand, to the best of his knowledge. One at thirty grand - _ridiculous_ \- and another at one hundred. Maybe even two by now.

He can just take both.

A vibration indicates incoming message. Four missed calls - _Wintergreen_. He calls back.

_“’bout time, Slade. I was…”_

“I’m taking the contracts on Mask, both of them,” he instantly says.

A moment of silence. _“I’m sorry, I needed me a second. Are you serious?”_

“Quite.”

_“Wow. I can only imagine what he did to piss you of like that.”_

“I don’t have time—”

_“Oh, you’ll find time for this, I’m sure. Had to catch up before you leave Gotham. New contract on Mask’s name, open and global, came up half an hour ago through Dark Web.”_

“How much?” he asks, not really caring.

 _“Two million dollars,”_ Billy slowly pronounces every single word, _“ **if** it’s done within twenty-four hours, that is.”_

He pauses for a moment, until this registers. Doesn’t bother hiding the surprise. “Who the hell called this?”

He reads the grin in Billy’s voice. _“Metropolis’ Lord and Savior.”_

Luthor.

“Has anyone stepped in yet?”

_“Well, even if someone has… there’s no case they’re closer than **you** are.”_

Closer than two blocks away? Yeah. Pretty hard to beat him there.

“Get me a place in Gotham,” he says, without giving it much thought.

_“A place? For how long?”_

“Just tonight.”

_“Hotel room…?”_

“No. Something more private.”

 _“Are you hurt?”_ he frowns.

“Just get it done and leave the city, Billy. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

_“Slade. What’s going on?”_

Yeah. That’s a good question, he means to tell him. What **_is_** going on? He’d like to know as well.

“Send me the address. Make it fast.”

He hangs up, and instantly calls for someone else.

“Deathstroke,” he says once the line is answered. “You set out a contract.”

Luthor’s voice comes pleased, though a little bemused. _“What a pleasant surprise! I was thinking of Deadshot, to be honest…”_

“Hmm. And where exactly is Floyd right now, I wonder.”

_“As a matter of fact, he’s in Washington. He can be in Gotham in approximately…”_

“… three hours, if he flies really fast. It’ll take him another to fix everything, so, four, at the very least. How nice. Maybe I’ll just camp up here and wait, so I can wave at him later.”

A small pause. _“You’re…”_

“Two blocks from your target.”

Luthor doesn’t hesitate. _“You have my attention.”_

“Confirmed kill within the next twenty minutes. But. You pay double.”

 _“Mask isn’t that important, or much of a difficult target -not to you,”_ Luthor snorts.

Slade scoffs. “Stinginess, Luthor? Really? You’re short on cash?”

_"Deathstroke, I’m not in **that** much of a hurry. I can always give it to Deadshot.”_

“Sure. You do that. Before you make this decision, though, you ought to know that Mask’s looking for a bodyguard. I mean, the real kind, not one of those dogs he has running behind him. I’m pretty sure he’ll be willing to offer _much_ more than four million if he’s aware of the situation. Then we can both just chill, wait for Deadshot or anyone else you’re sending, and… see what happens”.

Another long moment of silence followed by a sigh. “ _You do have a way with words, it’s a fact. Four it is. Just because it’s you.”_

“Flattered. Let’s round it up to five, shall we? Has a better ring to it.”

Luthor huffs. Not so amused anymore. _“Fine! Just get it done. Half now, half after.”_

“Or maybe we make it six. I’m waiting.”

He _does_ wait patiently, in a clearly tensed silence, up until he sees the amount uploaded on the account.

“Twenty minutes,” he says then. “Give my best to Mercy.”

He ends the call.

Here it is, then. Business. Just business, good business, that’s what this is. Nothing else.

Absolutely nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! ^_^
> 
> Day 2 of the SladeRobin Weekend!  
> Chosen prompt: **"I will take care of you."**
> 
> WARNING: A flashback includes imagery that could be disturbing for some.

 

_***_

 

 

 

 

_First time Grant ran away from home, he was barely eleven. And of course, he hasn't yet presented._

_It happens during a fight between him and Adeline -late evening. They don’t realize he’s missing until next morning, when Joey asks, close to tears, if his brother will return home at all._

_Grant already knows how to shoot a gun. He’s made sure of that. He doesn’t own one, however. And that night was pretty damn cold for anyone to be outside._

_He looks for him all day. Finds him, late afternoon, already dark outside, in the yard of an old, empty building at the other side of town, along with a group of teenagers -ages vary. He’s seated on a bench, holding an almost empty bottle of beer in one hand, evidently dizzy. He’s looking even younger in his blue patterned,_ _earflap knit cap. Another boy, an alpha,_ _maybe sixteen, with tattoos already on his arms, sits a little too close, talking to him, demonstrating a pack of pills. Grant seems to be listening very carefully._

_The teenager then lays a hand on Grant’s leg._

_His fist breaks the boy’s jaw, probably knocking him unconscious. He doesn’t know, because he doesn’t turn to look. There are shouts, a girl’s shrilling, but nobody dares to oppose him._

_He grabs Grant’s arm and starts dragging him to the car. For quite a few seconds, the boy is way too dazed and startled, so he lets him. Then, half way through, he starts actively squirming and fighting him._

_“Let go of me! Let go of me, I’m not coming back! **I’m not coming back!** ”_

_He actually manages to free himself from his grasp once they reach their destination._

_“Get in the car, **now**!” he orders, voice dangerously high with rage._

_“No!” he shouts angrily at him. “I don’t want you, or your stupid training, you… asshole! Why don’t you just go away and leave us alone **forever**?”_

_The crack of the slap he delivers is so dry and loud he can almost feel the vibration in his bones. There’s no yelp, only a sharp exhalation from Grant at the receiving, as it throws him on the cold ground._

_There’s silence for a few moments._

_Grant’s hand is on his already wildly reddened cheek as he looks up at him, shocked and frightened, trying to catch his breath, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. His bottom lip trembling._

_Slade feels empty. Utterly drained._

_He hauls him up and pushes him at the co-driver’s seat. Shuts the door and moves around to climb inside._

_Grant is curled to himself, head bowed, hand still on his cheek. The tears are at the corners of his eyes, and they must sting, but he stubbornly refuses to let them fall._

_“I hate you,” he says quietly._

_He clenches his teeth and briefly shuts his eyes. Recalls how close that freak sat to Grant, the pills he was inevitably about to pass him. The hand on his leg._

_“I don’t care,” he retaliates coldly, starting the car before he gets outside again and kills someone. “You’ll do as I say.”_

 

 

_***_

 

 

 

He walks back the way he came the first time. Only now, when he sees the guards, he puts a bullet in each head. Until there’s no man alive and carrying a gun on that floor but himself alone.

One of the first and non-negotiable rules when in any mission; never, at any case, enter a building without knowing all the ways out, and in extent, the full layout of it. And so, as soon as he enters the now silent, but still dimly lit office, finding it empty, he knows quite well where to turn to.

The door is discreetly placed between the small bar and a portrait on the wall. The noises coming from inside -growing more distinctive as he approaches- would sooner or later indicate the location of it anyway. It’s open, just a small crack, and withdraws easily, soundless, with a light push of his hand as he enters.

 

 

*** 

 

 

_It takes thirty-four bullets, two grenades, three stabs and twenty-three dead bodies -that’s how many men he’d found in there._

_He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask anything. Just got them all out of his way as fast as possible._

_As he starts kicking doors open, there’s a blank, ghostly sheet over his eyes. He doesn’t have a clue on what exactly he’s about to find -what he’s expecting to find- or what is he going to do when he eventually -finally- does._

_As soon as he goes down to the basements, he instantly knows where to turn to._

_There’s a door in the back. Locked up from outside, with a steel bolt. The smell coming from inside is heavy and overwhelming. Definitely not in a good way._

_He unhooks the bolt and kicks the lock down._

 

 

***

 

 

Todd is on the bed, on his back, wrists cuffed on the headboard, his weight completely crushed under Mask’s clothed figure. Mask is positioned between his wide-spread legs, his hands pressing those long, beautifully shaped thighs apart. His fingers dig up new bruises right there, as he violently pushes into the boy’s body, clearly uncaring to the small, strangled, desperate cries of pain in each vicious thrust. His face is buried at the crook of Jason’s neck, sucking, _biting_ , growling incoherent words of filth, when he doesn’t grunt like a pig atop of him.

Slade loses it.

He launces forward, grabs the alpha by the back of his neck with a single hand and hauls him at the wall across the room.

A deafening bang, a dent on the wall, fragments falling down over the body, after it’s hit the ground. In the time that it takes Sionis to overcome the black out the blow causes, he leans over the boy, taking his face in his hands.

“Kid?”

Jason isn’t shaking or trying to move. He just lies there, in those sweat-wet sheets, as limp as a rag doll, his breathing hard and rough.

He instantly knows the eyes looking at him behind that blurry veil of mist cannot really see him. They’re empty, deeply hazed. His gaze falls at the bed stand, where the key to the handcuffs lies beside a used syringe and a small vial containing a transparent essence. A glance at Jason's arm indicates the rough point of injection, as well as the evidence of fruitless resistance. There are new bites along the line of his neck and shoulders. The cigarette burn on his hip. A darkening bruise at the side of his jaw, a redness on his right cheek, and his lips are split -or is it bitten?

Slade brushes his thumbs over the boy's cheekbones before he carefully sets his head down on the pillow. As he unlocks the handcuffs and tosses them aside, the release of Jason’s wrists gets him a low whine. The cuffs were so tight, cutting so deep, that there’s a small stream of blood rolling down his arm.

_… you’ll be able to bathe in it._

He slowly lowers the boy’s hands to his sides, and deliberately doesn’t look down at the kid’s legs.

A heavy grunt gets him to turn around, hefting his gun, as Black Mask stumbles to his feet.

“Don’t get up,” Slade says blankly. “Save yourself some trouble.”

“What… in the _hell_ …”

Slade shoots one knee.

He casually winces and then hums at the ear-piercing scream, like it’s annoying him. The man falls on the ground in a horrific pose, evidence of blood, skin and shattered bone emerging through the ripped fabric of his pants -which, apparently, he had the decency to pull back up.

“What’s that?” he mocks. “I thought you liked pain.”

Mask pants and gasps, but even so, he manages to rasp out a breathless, rough, “Whatever… the price… I double… double it…”

Slade looks down at him, quite pensive. “I’ve just now decided I can’t leave half pairs. It bothers my brain. Developing OCD, I guess.”

The other knee shatters, and Slade lets the extensive screaming fade out, before he lowers himself into a crouch beside him. “Oh--- oh, right. You _do_ like pain. Just not on yourself. A sadist. My bad.”

Mask looks at him, eyes widened. “Is this about **_him_**?” he yelps pointing at the direction of the bed, where Jason lies still. “About some fucking omega whore?”

He presses the gun on his shoulder and gives another shot, because shoulder wounds are quite painful, and it satisfies him, hearing him scream his lungs out. It feels kind of fair.

Kind of.

“’ll… bleed… bleed out…” Mask stammers after quite some time.

“What you have him on?”

“What— what—”

“What drugs do you have him on?” Slade carefully emphasizes each word.

“Sedative,” he gasps through gritted teeth. “Heavy… Mild won’t… catch him.”

Slade stands, straightening his back.

“Did you have fun?”

“You want him, that it? T—take him,” he groans, shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t… not… give a… shit… just… just…”

“There are people looking for him. His brother. _All_ of his brothers,” he says coldly. “And his father.”

He goes on to press one boot over one shattered knee. Feels the remains of bone moving like they were never meant to, waiting patiently until the pained howls wring out.

“But I guess you know that already,” he continues when his voice can be heard over it. “So. Go ahead. Tell me. Did it feel good? Keeping him here, knowing that they’re desperate? That they’re looking for him everywhere? Did you revel in the fact that the Bat was oblivious of his son being here in Gotham all along, right under his nose?”

Sionis lowers his head, making a strange, distorting sound, as he tries to find his breath once more. At first, Slade thinks he sobs. Then, as he raises his horrifying masked face, he realizes that he’s _laughing_.

He’s witnessed that before. Some men reach this point. When they come to the realization that they are, basically, already dead, knowing that they have nothing more to lose, they let it all out. Confessions. Sometimes bitter, sometimes angry, sometimes resentful.

Sometimes, poisonous.

“It felt fucking fantastic,” the prick growls in one go, pressing one hand on his injured shoulder, trying to minimize the blood loss there. “One time… one time, he was at the roof, a fight with some Talons or whatever… as I was taking his son right there on that bed. He cried all the way through it like he’d never done before.”

The laughter goes hysterical.

“I forced him… forced him into screaming his daddy for help while we were at it. While I fucked that tight little cunt of his,” he licks his lips through the zipper. “Mmm. Tight, and warm, and wet. And that firm, virgin ass… Being the proud little slut that he is, I bet he’d only spread his legs for one, two people at best before I stepped in.”

He stays still, but he can only see red. Blood.

Enough for him to bathe in.

“But,” he grins, “I don’t need to tell you that, do I? You’ll find out once you take him yourself… find out what a sweet little treat he…”

He shoots down at his groin, at his cock.

It’s surprising that he hasn’t passed out of the pain just yet. But Slade waits, patiently. Waits until the screaming’s stopped, until the force of it has probably ripped apart his vocal cords, until he shudders and jerks violently, blood coming up to fill his throat and choke him. Until he can gaze at the perfect picture of pure panic and agony sprawling all over his eyes. And then, only then, he plants four bullets in his head.

He takes a picture. Sends it to Luthor. Then stays, staring down at the lifeless body for several seconds before he eventually turns to head back to the bed.

Jason is now completely unconscious, which is probably for the best. He wraps the sheet around him as good as possible, and then lifts him in his arms. The weight’s not nearly enough to cause him any strain -especially since, as he believes, the boy weights now much less than he normally does.

Jason’s head rests on his pec, right under his shoulder.

He goes straight for the fire escape.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As he enters the relatively remoted Airbnb the address of which he’d found sent to him, carrying Jason in his arms, the last thing he’s expecting to find is a stunned Wintergreen, looking at him, widened eyes wandering from his face to Jason’s wrecked, unconscious form and back. He’s got his phone in his hands, and the TV behind him is turned on.

“What the hell... Slade?” he manages after a while.

He lacks both the energy and the will to get even remotely angry at this point. He kicks the door closed behind him. “I told you to leave the city,” he growls, heading further into the place.

“I thought you were injured!”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you didn’t answer when I asked. And you’ve pulled that shit before.”

Slade snorts and frowns. He turns to move further inside, with Bill, of course, following. Reading his thoughts, like he usually does, he indicates “Second door on the left.”

The bedroom looks spacious enough. Wintergreen turns the light on, and he shifts a little at the entrance, making sure no part of Jason bangs anywhere on the door frame.

“Is there a bathtub here?” he asks, setting the kid down on the mattress.

_“What?”_

“A bathtub, Bill,” he drawls through clenched teeth.

Wintergreen sighs. Nods.

“Then, since you _are_ here after all, make yourself useful and go fill it up.”

He simply stares at him for a while, but then, probably realizing this isn’t the right time to start asking questions, he gives another nod and leaves the room.

Slade leans over the boy and unwraps the sheet -he’ll be eager to dispose of this thing later on. He runs a hand through his messy, sweaty hair, and examines him for more serious injuries. The bruising at his sides and the way Jason lightly jerks and pouts in his sleep as he presses his fingers on that spot indicates some kind of deeper bone injury, but thankfully, nothing more than that.

He takes a look further down, at the now dried blood and semen marking the inside of his thighs.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and wishes he could bring this trash of the humankind back to life so that he could kill him again.

“Slade. All set.”

Bill’s standing at the door as he passes one arm under the boy’s knees, the other around his upper back, to lift him up again.

“Throw that thing away,” he murmurs as he passes beside him, with a wave of his head back at the sheet.

The door to the bathroom was deliberately left open, light coming from inside, so he instantly knows where to head to. He lowers the boy carefully into the hot water, placing his head on the soft, white towel Bill had put there for this purpose, because, of course Bill would think of everything properly, like the skillful beta that he is.

He kneels, takes one of the cloths lying on a pile next to the tub and a bottle of shower jell from a small shelf. Once he’s effectively produced lather, he starts rubbing the cloth over the boy’s abused skin as gently as possible, considering that he has to eliminate all the filth that prick has stained him with. He starts with his face, and moves down to his arms and torso.

He stops for a moment, knitting his eyebrows, _knowing_ that he’s being watched. He slightly turns his head to look at Bill leaning at the doorframe over his shoulder.

“ _What_?” he demands aggressively.

Bill isn’t as tensed or confused as before. Not at all, actually. He looks as calm and reserved as always. “Who is that, Slade?” he asks.

He turns back to his task, trying to concentrate just to that, ignoring the headache that’s slowly forming inside. “Red Hood,” he answers quietly.

He’s certain that, if he turned back at that point, he’d come across with another stunned gaze. Bill’s tone when he speaks again as shaken as curious. “What happened to him?”

“Black Mask had him,” he responds blankly. “For three months,” he adds a second later.

“Jesus,” he murmurs.

He… understands the reaction. It’s actually beyond surprising, how the boy isn’t a complete and total ruin after being kept that long by a sadist and sexist as renowned and vulgar as Roman Sionis. All those marks on him, dreadful as they are, are nothing to what one would normally expect to find on him. Slade guesses the only thing that saved him from extensive, permanent disfiguration had been Mask’s longing for him. His will to keep his toy fairly pretty for himself.

“What are you planning to do with him?”

“I’ll call his people to collect him before I go.”

He now scrubs off the filth between the kid’s legs. Bill doesn’t comment. He simply approaches and takes the bottle of shampoo from the shelf. He pours a decent amount of liquid in his hands before he settles on his knees as well behind Jason, washing the boy’s hair. He says nothing, not even glances at him.

“You were ready to get on board with two ridiculous contracts,” he observes after a lifetime. “Before I ever told you about Luthor.”

Damn Bill Wintergreen, and his intelligence, and most of all, his fucking knowledge of him. He pretends he doesn’t understand and shrugs.

“And of course,” Bill goes on, softly, soothingly carding his fingers against Jason’s scalp, “you didn’t have to do… all that. You could have just sent his people where he was.”

Slade feels his shoulders stiffening, and his chest tightening. He keeps going, still not looking at him, still choosing to act as if no words had been spoken.

“You didn’t want them to see him like that,” he lowers his voice a little. “You didn’t want… a _father_ to see his child like that.”

“Stop,” he warns this time.

“Even if that father is Batman… you can’t stand the thought of…”

He gives a furious growl, but he’s quick to cut it off when Jason flinches, a small, frightened whine pulled out of him. He’s fast to turn it into a low rumble, taking one his wrists and rubbing soft circles at the inside of it, while at the same time Bill quietly shushes him, gently pressing one hand over his upper back, until he’s once again relaxed.

“Stop it, Billy,” he says again, firmly.

“Screw you, Slade. Don’t you dare try and alpha-me,” he warns calmly, not even a shred of fear in his voice. “And I _will_ stop. In a second. After I tell you something that I should have told you a long time ago. You asked… no, you _demanded_ never to say another word about it again, but this time, you’ll listen.”

“No.”

“Slade. This… unspeakable thing that happened to Grant…”

“ ** _Shut_** —”

“… _wasn’t_ your fault.”

He stays completely still. Looking down at the now blurry, slightly colored water in the tub.

Bill says nothing else. If he’s expecting an attack or a rage outburst, he doesn’t let it show. He probably doesn’t even care, because, frankly, Bill just doesn’t take his shit. He never did. It’s why he’s stayed around that long. He thoroughly continues his work, and then takes the shower head, to wash Jason’s hair off.

Slade takes action after several seconds, maybe a whole minute even. Scrubs the last stains away before he speaks, without looking at him, his voice bland and empty.

“You’re a good friend, Bill. But we both know _that…_ is a shameless lie.”

 

 

***

 

 

_It’s his son on that wrecked cot._

_It’s his son on that old, tattered, blood-stained mattress._

_It’s his son, naked, all soaked in sweat, swimming in a river of blood –his own blood._

**… you’ll be able to bathe in it.**

_He doesn’t step inside -he can’t. Just tries to get his mind to adjust to the facts, as his eye falls down, on that carton box on the floor, at the feet of the cot, and… to what’s laying inside._

_There’s three of them. Clearly much less developed than one would expect, even for the six-month products of a premature labor. No longer than ten inches each. Still covered in fluids, mucus and blood._

_He thinks one of them… moves._

_He doesn’t breathe. His throat is painfully dry. His stomach turns._

_It’s one of those things anyone would want to close their eyes at the sight of, yet finding themselves horrifically unable to do so. An image burned somewhere so deeply inside that it can never be unseen._

_It can’t have been more than an hour since it was done._

_An hour._

_He could have… if he was faster, he could have…_

_Grant._

_Grant is… thin. Too… thin._

_Oddly, that’s the first thing that comes to his mind as he approaches, finally getting his feet to start functioning again. **Far** too thin, especially to have been… to have just given…_

_He dreads to even think of the word, let alone speak it out loud._

_No wonder those… those **creatures** ended up coming to this nightmarish world in such state._

_Grant is as pale as ghost, despite the fact that his face is burning in fever, as he realizes while running a hand over his clammy forehead. This paleness causes all the marks that defile his skin to appear even more prominent. Bruises, hickeys, located in various places… and bitemarks. Three of the scars, clearly among the oldest, appear to be deeper, claiming marks, which is, of course, unnecessarily cruel. One at the side of his neck, one on his hip, and the other at the inside of his right thigh. The other bites, the hickeys… located mostly on his neck, shoulders, arms and thighs. Some of them, he realizes with a sudden wave of hardly tamed rage, are barely a day old._

_The idea… the idea that he had been violated this way, even while he was carrying…_

_One of his wrists is cuffed to a pipe of the radiator behind the cot._

_Cuffed._

_They couldn’t have considered for a moment that he’d have been able to even drag himself across the floor, to move at all while in such state, let alone trying to escape a locked, steel door. Which means they’d done that before anything started. That they didn’t even bother undoing this due to the duration of this. That they made him go through such distress, through such agony and pain, with one of his limbs restrained._

_They kept him there, in that basement, using him as their pleasure vessel. Didn’t care that he got pregnant. Kept taking what they wanted. And then, when a very premature labor took place over a filthy, shitty mattress in that hell hole, they did… nothing, obviously. Just… let it happen. And then they took the stillborn babies -fetuses-, put them in a box, and simply… left it there. As they left him as well, passed out, feverish and unconscious, in an ocean of blood._

You’ll be able to bathe in it.

**_You’ll be able to bathe in it._ **

**\----You’ll be able to bathe in it----**

_There is no key there, of course, so he simply pulls hard at the chain, breaking it._

_Grant wakes up at the jerk. Slowly opens his eyes and looks up at him, breathing slow and quiet, eyelids still heavy with exhaustion, his expression tired and confused, like he doesn’t recognize him._

_“Dad…?” he rasps out, voice weak and hoarse, like he’d been screaming. Which he probably did._

_‘Dad’._

_He hadn’t heard that word from Grant in the past decade or so._

_He drops to his knees on the mattress, and pulls his son into his lap, holding his head against his chest. Nuzzles his face into his hair._

_“I’m sorry,” Grant whispers. “I failed…”_

_“No. No, you didn’t. You didn’t fail,” he says, and then adds, through his bleeding throat, “I did.”_

_Grant looks up at him. A tear rolling down his cheek. “No,” Slade says, gently wiping it away. “No.”_

_Grant takes a shaky breath, and he feels him moving slightly in his arms, weakly turning his head, as if to inspect the room. Stopping, when his gaze falls at the horror of that box._

_It’s like he’s just woken up, realizing that the nightmare he thought he was having had been the dreadful reality all along. Like everything abruptly, forcibly came back to him within a second._

_With a choked, broken sob, he turns to bury his face into his chest, his fist clinging weakly to the upper part of is suit, and Slade’s fast to shift, blocking any view of it, holding him tighter still. He kisses the top of his head, shushing him softly. “Don’t look,” he urges. “Just close your eyes, alright?”_

_Grant’s shaking uncontrollably now, and as he moves to pick him up, carry him away from that hell, he feels his grip tightening._

_“Do you remember,” he voices, barely audible, “the kite we made? Do you? Remember… that day?”_

_He has no clue what he’s talking about. He can’t try and think at this point. He can’t even pull a rumble, to comfort him. Everything feels dead inside._

_He kisses his forehead. “Yeah,” he says, nonetheless. “I remember.”_

_There’s something like a faint smile on his lips. A warm wave of calmness taking over the distress, as he relaxes again completely, his eyelids slowly failing him._

_“I… tried,” he whispers. “I tried…”_

_“And you made it. You made it. I am…”_

_He stops. Stops, because he doesn’t feel him shaking, or otherwise moving anymore. Doesn’t feel his breath as he strokes his face._

_“Grant?”_

_Silence._

_He feels his limbs will fall apart, and yet, somehow, he manages to hold him even tighter._

 

 

_***_

 

 

Wintergreen’s assumption that he might have been injured came out well after all, since he’d thought of bringing along a casual set of his clothes. Though the kid isn’t small in frame, and really, not much shorter than himself, he’s still not close to his size, so the t-shirt and sweatpants are loose on him -which is good, considering that he’ll be relaxed into them.

It’s a relief to watch at least some of those marks disappearing under the cloths.

Slade towels his hair, and Jason opens his eyes right after he’s passed his head through the collar of the t-shirt. They have him sitting, so he raises his head to look up at him in weary, still hazed eyes. His gaze is still far too confused, unfocused and tired -so very tired. He looks like he’s trying to figure out who he is, what is he doing there, what on earth is going on.

Slade says nothing. He doubts he’ll actually understand him. He combs a hand through his wet strands, instead. Jason doesn’t flinch or otherwise react. He stills completely when Slade pulls a rumble.

He’s by no means his alpha. But he _is_ an alpha not posing as a threat in… a very long time.

In the next few moments, Jason simply resigns from his try to understand what exactly is going on, to break through the haze of the drugs. He moves forward, rests his head against his chest -the source of that rumble- and closes his eyes, reaching up one hand to, very lightly, grip on his own. Slade lets him, holding him in return, still brushing one hand comfortingly through his hair, while he’s rubbing the other between his shoulder blades.

Wintergreen, who’s tidying up the towels at this point, comes closer. He’s got a sad smile on his face as he runs a comforting hand up and down Jason’s spine. The boy makes a soft sound, stirring a bit.

“He’s a sweet kid,” he says warmly.

Slade says nothing, even though, internally, he agrees.

The TV in the living room is still turned on, currently playing the midnight news. Suddenly, as he gets out in the corridor, carrying Jason in his arms, the boy lets out a broken, desperate whine, his whole body tensing as he weakly tries to turn his head to the direction of the sound, in longing and agony.

_“… which is critical for the creation and preservation of even better conditions for each and every one of our… our children, that…”_

Bruce Wayne, looking quite wearied out and grim (understandably enough) is shown talking to a group of journalists in a press conference just that morning, as the news’ hostess informs.

He’d heard his father’s voice. In his haze, probably thought he was there.

“Hush,” he soothes him, mouth against the top of his head, as he moves back to the bedroom. “In a while, kid. Just a little while.”

He pulls another rumble. Jason spasms a little, and then grows limp again, gripping at his shirt with his eyes closed, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘Bruce’.

He’s set him on the mattress when Wintergreen follows inside, holding a roll of gauze and a vial. “His wrists,” he explains once he catches his expression.

Jason curls to himself while Bill applies antiseptic to the wounds the rough, metal handcuffs caused, and then bandages them. His eyes are open, fixed on a blank space. His eyelids heavy. He looks… vulnerable. Blinks once, slightly shifting, but not looking at him when he cups and caresses his face, despite how he leans into the touch.

He’s fallen asleep before Wintergreen has finished.

Slade takes his hand away and inhales. Pulls the covers over the kid, before he settles to sit at the edge of the bed. He rubs a hand over his chest and huffs. The tightness seems to be there to stay, for now at least. The headache as well -the cause of this might actually be his effort to push all memories, all thoughts of parallels back into the deepest parts of his mind and lock them up exactly there, where they belong.

“So,” Bill says after a while. “Six million, huh. Way more than a prick like Mask would normally worth. Good bargain.”

A good bargain it is, indeed, and yet, Slade wants to punch him, because Bill _knows_ he doesn’t give two fucks about it right now.

(well, maybe just one.)

He thinks about Mask’s dead body. All the blood. His screams. And then, his last words. _Taunting_.

Eight bullets was… far too little of a punishment. But at least he was able to make him scream. Make him suffer.

No one had suffered over what had happened to his own son.

There was no one alive to be punished for it. No one to pay. No one to suffer the demon of his madding rage and furious pain. There was nothing, because he’d already killed everyone before he found him. Twenty-three dead men. It could have been one of them… some of them… or all of them. The ones that touched him. That put those things inside him. That then, when something apparently went so, so wrong, tied him there, and as soon as the babies were out, threw them in a damn box and left them there, to die. Waited to see whether Grant would make it, or if they had to dig a bigger pit.

Someone could argue that maybe _not_ knowing more horrifying details than the ones he’d already assumed, was for the best. To him, to this day… assuming was way more agonizing and painful.

His child had been tortured. Beaten. Clamed and marked. _Raped_ , and knotted. Abused, in every way possible. And then neglected to his death.

He’d sent him there. On that mission.

Bill said no. _Slade, **no**._ You’re pressing him way too much, he’d said.

He didn’t listen. And this had happened, and somehow… somehow, he had to accept that.

All of that.

“Before he died,” he catches himself speaking, staring at the very same emptiness Jason was facing a few minutes ago, “Grant recalled a day when we flew a kite.”

Wintergreen shifts, and then turns to look at him. “That’s… It must have been a nice day,” he says softly.

Slade glances at him, face drained of any expression. “I can’t remember it, Bill.”

The flash of pain through his eyes comes and goes within a second, but Slade still catches it. Bill clenches his teeth, a hand over his face as he nods, his eyebrows knitted. Swallows. Waits.

“It was important to him. Hell, it must have been. It was the last coherent thing he ever said. And I just… can’t remember what he was referring to.”

Wintergreen briefly closes his eyes, rubbing circles on his temple. “And you think that makes you a horrid human being, I take it.”

Slade observes as Bill gets up, looks down at Jason’s sleeping form and strokes a hand over his forehead.

“You’re anything _but_ a good person, Slade. But tonight, you saved this boy from tremendous amounts of further pain and suffering. Maybe even by a similar fate as your son endured. Tonight, a father -an enemy of yours- will finally start breathing again, after three months of living in hell.”

“I didn’t do it for him, and I didn’t do it to be… good.”

“No. But you didn’t do it for the money either. Even if Luthor had rejected you, you would have still done it, and don’t you dare deny it. You did this for the kid, and for yourself, because this whole thing reminds you of Grant. I wouldn’t go as far as to call this noble… but it’s pretty damn far from being evil, too.”

Bill turns his back and slowly makes his way to the door, but stops before he’s left the room, reluctantly placing a hand on the doorframe.

“It’s been ten years since his death, and you still won’t talk about it. About _him_. I’m fairly certain you’ve been sadistically trying to deprive yourself from any thought of him, because the pain is just… too much,” he briefly turns his head to face him again. “Everything would have been easier if you finally gave yourself some time to mourn. I know you think you don’t deserve it… but just because you’ve been a shitty father, and just because he’s not here anymore… it doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to still love him.”

That fucking man.

He takes a hard breath in that deafening silence that follows. Chooses to keep his eyes fixed on Jason.

“Give me a call once you’ve collected yourself,” Billy says as he exits.

Not a minute later, he hears the front door opening and closing again.

He doesn’t move for quite a while.

Technically, there aren’t many things left to do now. Just call the Bat. An encrypted message would do just fine.

Jason looks… calm. Or, more accurately, exhausted. Still curled to himself, his lips slightly parted, chest slowly rising and falling at the soft pattern of his breathing. Instinct calls for him to move closer, to hold him. Instead, he settles for brushing some black strands off his forehead. All the stench and distress are now scrubbed away; he smells like himself once more. Something hot, spicy, with sweet undertones of musk and jasmine.

The marks on the pale skin that’s visible are painfully present, even in the blissful semi-darkness. Thankfully, it’s nothing that won’t go away in time. He just wishes it could have been the case for the other marks. The real ones. Those that would mar and torture his soul from now on.

The kid was strong, though. And, unlike Grant… alive. As long as one is breathing, anything’s possible. Hopefully, he would get through this. He had people to care for him. Even if Batman wasn’t good enough, he’d still have Grayson, and _that_ , honestly, should be enough on its own. Knowing Dick, he was pretty damn sure that, despite his own sheer devastation upon his brother’s suffering, he would cling to him like a protective blanket against anything and anyone threatening him from this point on.

Slade would have done the same for Grant, had he been alive.

He sends the message, and then puts his mask back on, before he gets up. He doesn’t have more than fifteen minutes, if the Bat is already out in the streets. And he probably is.

He hovers over the bed for just a moment. A last, lingering caress of his fingers through the boy’s hair.

“Take care, kid,” he murmurs as if Jason can hear him, before he leaves the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He waits at the opposite building, having a view of the bedroom’s window. Waits, until _he_ gets there.

Batman arrives within fourteen minutes, from the window, because, _of course._ A dark shadow, flying in the night. Easily opens it and gets inside.

Slade can’t see much from where he is, as he launces on the bed, not even bothering checking for any kind of trap, clearly not bothering thinking at all upon the sight of his son. He probably checks on him at first for visible injuries -he can only see his back-, and then, he hugs the still sleeping form of the boy to his chest, rocking him back and forth.

The kid is safe now. Alive and safe, in the arms of his father.

He closes his eyes. Takes a breath.

_I tried._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right after the storm...
> 
> Last chapter was coming out huge, so I've decided to split it into two different ones. Enjoy. :)

Jason doesn’t want to face the world behind his closed eyelids.

His body feels heavy with exhaustion, yet strangely, unexpectedly relaxed, wrapped in soft covers that somehow… somehow smell like home.

Everything is warm and safe, and… it’s wrong. It _has_ to be. It has to be, because warm and soft and _safe_ isn’t Roman’s way.

Roman’s way is harsh, painful and terrifying. Pure despair. No relaxation there. No comfort. He thought he’d forgotten what that word even meant.

Tensed. Tensed and impossibly stiff, all the time.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

Most of the times, he’s trapped under his body, on his belly or on his back. Roman’s weight crushing him over a hard mattress, his own body so hot and swimming in sweat that he thinks he could pass out at any minute during the act -and sometimes, he actually does.

Some other times, he’s being left there, tied or cuffed, naked, no covers over him, no heat, nothing. Coldness creeping its way all over him. Ice settling deep into his bones. His teeth chatter. He shivers, sometimes for hours and hours, that feel longer than days. He’s tossing and turning, seeking any kind of warmth. Even curling up to himself could be somewhat comforting. But no. He can’t move. The bonds keep him firmly in place.

He refuses to plead. For a while. For even two whole weeks, maybe, before the need for survival becomes urgent. Before he has to force himself put his pride aside and plead, beg, for even the smallest, simplest things. For heating. For food. For water. For being allowed to go to the goddamn bathroom on his own. At some point, he’d been so cold for so long, that he’d _begged_ for any kind of contact. Suffered through Roman’s satisfied grin and dark chuckles as the man then rutted inside him.

When he finds the strength to fight back, Roman brings the drugs into the game. _“This will calm you down, princess,”_ he says. But it rarely helps. If anything, it makes him feel even more helpless and trapped. Yes, drugs reduce the pain -which Jason knows would be impossibly sharp, if he could feel- but everything else… the terrifying inability of his lost in the numbness limbs to move, despite his brain ordering them to do so… the distressful feeling of floating, drifting into unknown depths, always reminding him of the Pit… the veil of blurriness covering his eyes and ears, rendering him unable to comprehend the faces he sees, the voices he hears… everything mixed up and enhanced into giant shapes and vague sounds that barely make sense at all. That confusion, as well as the vulnerability that came with it, caused a kind of despair he’d never felt before in his life.

So… yeah. This sense of comfort and familiarity right now can’t be real. And yet, it’s beautiful. He hasn’t felt like that in so long, and he wants this, he clings to it, desperate to preserve it for as long as he can. He stays still, completely still, and doesn’t open his eyes, in fear that he’ll see Roman’s horrifying mask looming over him, and the circle of torture and pain will once more begin.

He tries to recall facts.

He’s on his knees in front of Roman, who’s sitting sprawled on the sofa. His shaft in his mouth tastes bitter. Thankfully, he doesn’t spill. Stops him in time, zips himself and forcibly holds his head against his thigh. He stays. It’s not like he can do much. The dose Roman had injected him earlier with hasn’t completely worn out just yet.

Roman warns him. Tells him to stay still, like a good boy, and do as he’s told, if he doesn’t want to spend another night with his men. Jason doesn’t want that one bit, so he gives a small nod.

Soon after, someone comes in.

Deathstroke. _Slade._

He wants to choke on his shame and die. Dreads the thought of crossing eyes with him, so he tries not to. Not when he comes in. Not when he clearly realizes what exactly is going on. Not when Roman pushes him down to him, the order he gives registering painfully into Jason’s brain. Not even when Slade stops him, either. Only when he directly tells him to.

The most painful thing in all of this is that Slade actually _is_ able to at least get to Dick, to help him… if he wants to. He knows this, because he knows there is… _something_ between them. Not exactly what, or on what extend, but still… he’d seen them together one night. They were far too close to each other, and he had far too good of a view from that higher rooftop to assume that what he was witnessing was a misunderstanding.

He’s ready to drop the last fragments of pride he’s got left and go as far as to beg Slade, but he can’t proceed with it. Not while Roman’s in the room. And maybe it’s better off this way. He doesn’t know what exactly he would plead about, if he could; for him to get this to Dick, or… or simply not have him… do _this_. Truth is, he has no idea how he would react to either of those things, and… he’s too afraid to find out.

Blowing Slade off once feels like a lesser evil compared to a whole night with Roman's men.

He doesn’t say anything, eventually. Slade’s expression is hard to read, but it certainly isn’t threatening. Actually… nothing in his posture feels like that.

What he does next is something he’s never received, ever since that wretched day when, after falling unconscious during a battle, he woke up in one of Roman’s rooms, all flushed red, sweaty. Whining at the warmth sprawling inside his lower stomach, something in there twisting uncomfortably. An impossible wetness rapidly forming between his thighs. His cock half-hard. When he opened his eyes, first thing he saw was Roman’s face above him, teeth flushing white in a wide grin, a predatory look in his eyes.

_“Well, what’d you know. Big, bad Red Hood… nothing but a cute, little omega slut, after all.”_

And now, suddenly, Slade’s hand on him is… so much unlike Roman’s. So much unlike those unnervingly soft, cruel, possessive fingers creeping all over him. Strong and callused as it is, it gives him the gentlest touch he’s received in months.

It’s something he’d never expect of him. But there it is, tender and comforting, and… _more_. He wants more of this. He doesn’t want him to let go. So, when he tells him to get closer, he immediately obeys.

Slade, with a single hand, touches all the right spots, in all the right ways. Clearly, an alpha that _knows_ how to please. He closes his eyes and melts on him. As he presses lips over his forehead, Jason breathes his powerful scent; smoky, with notes of black pepper, and something like bergamot. And that rumble… that rumble he pulls has the best of him.

He’s never had an alpha around that was able to produce such a powerful and overwhelming, yet at the same time comforting sound. It was quite similar to those rumbles that Bruce used to pull for him sometimes, when he was younger.

Safe. He’s safe. Safe, and protected.

At that very moment, it really wasn’t that hard to understand that it’s more than looks, maybe more than sex, even, that’s drawn Dick to him.

Then Roman’s voice comes, forcibly landing him into the cruel reality once more.

From the very moment Slade refuses, Jason knows it’s going to be one particularly tough night on him. Roman’s scent instantly turns sharper, uglier - _angrier_.

Slade leaves. Roman burns him, putting out his cigarette on his hip. He screams.

He’s dragged to the bedroom, and down to the bed. He fights, with everything he has -all that little that remains. Roman slaps him. He hears it more than he feels it. He sees stars. Once he’s starting to gain focus again, cuffs are locked around his wrists once more, and Roman holds a syringe in his hand, dangerously close to his vein. He jerks desperately, but it’s no use. He holds him down, bruises him. The needle goes in.

He’s floating again. His limbs weight tons. Blurriness rules everywhere around.

He knows when Roman’s inside him. He can feel the first violent thrust. It hurts. _A lot._ He can’t hold back his whimpers and whines, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

He takes him. Bites him. He comes, and then gets off him. Returns once he’s ready again, not long after. This time, it hurts even more, thrusts even more vicious and abrupt, and he can feel his knot starting to swell up inside him.

And then, all of a sudden, he’s gone. No weight pressed over him anymore.

The abrupt removal of the slowly swelling knot stings, as if something has been ripped out of him, but he welcomes this new pain, if that means Roman is now away from him.

He can vaguely see a face over him, feel warm hands at both sides of his face, smell steel and gunpowder in the air, but nothing else. He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t move, can’t speak, can’t… _can’t_ …

Pain on his wrists. His arms hurt as they’re lowered down to a more natural position.

Soon after, he blacks out.

Next thing he knows, he’s… seated. He does have an idea of space this time, even though he still can’t identify the person that hides the light above him, as he raises his head up, with gargantuan effort. He feels a huge, comforting hand over him, running fingers through his hair. Definitely _not_ Roman’s hand. This is… calming. And it turns unimaginably mesmerizing when that low, decisive rumble registers to him.

He instinctively looks for the source, and finds himself pressed over a warm, strong chest. Someone holds him. Steady, certain hands. He doesn’t think anymore.

_Safe._

He thinks he might have fallen asleep; God knows for how long. When he wakes up, someone’s carrying him.

He hears Bruce’s voice.

Yes, it’s Bruce’s voice. Far and away, but it is, it **_is_**! He twists and turns. Whines, desperately, fighting to get to him.

_Bruce, help me, help me, don’t leave me, don’t…_

“Hush. In a while, kid. Just in a little while.”

He… _thinks_ he knows that voice, but he’s way past trying to figure out or explain anything. When there’s another rumble, he simply sinks into it.

Then there’s darkness. He knows he’s laid somewhere, but he can only see intimidating shapes all around, slight moves. Exhaustion pours through every single pore of him.

He can’t tell when exactly he falls asleep.

“Jason?”

Voice clear, but soft, as if not to startle him. He flinches a little, more out of surprise than anything else.

Strong fingers brush the strands of hair falling over his forehead. That hand… pleasantly cool against his skin, not spoiling the blissful, blessed sense of safety of the covers wrapped around him. It’s so, so nice. He’s unable to bite back a needy sigh. _Please, don’t go away now._

“Jay?”

He takes the risk and opens his eyes, expecting everything to be gone within a second.

_Bruce._

His face is the first thing he sees. It’s hollow and pale, dark circles embellishing the spots under his eyes. And yet, in all his agony, his expression still burns him with tons of love.

“My boy,” he says, and his voice is shaking, hoarse and barely audible, a tone he believes he might have never heard of him before.

Jason blinks up at him. He slowly turns his head.

A room. His own, old room. In the manor.

His gaze returns to Bruce, who’s still stroking his hair. Jason doesn’t move a muscle. “It’s a dream,” he rasps a few moments later.

Bruce looks devastated at the statement. He leans over him, takes his face in his hands and presses a lingering kiss on his forehead. When he pulls back, he still remains close, locking eyes with him. He gently reaches to take his hand, bring it up. He kisses the inside of his wrist, twice, which causes him to produce a soft sound, and then holds it to his chest. “Jason, you’re home. _Home_.”

Jason shivers. “B-Bruce?” he stutters.

“Yes, my boy. My brave, strong boy. I’m here. I’m here with you.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His breath catches.

Real.

This is real.

A thousand questions, a thousand dreadful thoughts, but none of that matters now. He weakly tries to support himself on his elbows. “No-no, don’t get up, it’s all right,” Bruce has a gentle hand on his shoulder almost immediately. “You need to…”

Jason ignores the words. He raises his arms as much as he can, with huge effort, to wrap them around Bruce’s neck. Bruce is a bit hesitant at first, for some reason, but soon enough, he gives up and hugs him over his chest tightly, nuzzling his face in his hair.

Jason feels the first tears starting to form. Buried at the collar of his shirt, he breathes Bruce’s scent, strong and overwhelming as always; mostly like cedar wood, but also, amber and hyacinth.

So familiar. So comforting. _Home_.

As he shifts in Bruce’s arms, looking for more of that scent, a sudden wave of striking pain pierces through him, starting from somewhere on the right side of his torso. He spasms and whines, his grip on Bruce’s shirt tightening.

“Shh,” Bruce comforts him, hurrying to break the contact and carefully lower him back on the mattress. “It’s all right, you’ll be all right. Your ribs are injured.” It’s probably why he felt him hesitant at first.

Yes, his ribs are injured. They most certainly are. Two days ago (or is it more now?) during another failed attempt to escape, Roman had kicked him, and…

Jason wants to tell him that there is no part of him that isn’t injured. Injured, and… stained.

The pain starts to ease down, but all of a sudden, a paranoid fear claims him in cold arms. That this isn’t true, but merely a hallucination, caused by the drugs. That, soon, he’ll be snapped out of it, and it’ll be Roman, just Roman again, Roman all over him, touching him, claiming him, burning him, and he… he can’t… he can’t.

His heart starts to race, wildly. He’s sweating and shaking. He feels his chest heaving, his throat closing, his breath not coming out at all.

“Jason? Jay?” Bruce’s voice, worried and scared.

“I… can’t… you’re not… you can’t be… I’m… I’m not…”

“Jason. Jason, look at me, focus on me. Listen to my voice. I…”

“No… no, no, no, I can’t…”

“Jason. You’re having a panic attack. It will be over soon, I promise. I need you to breathe…”

But he doesn’t listen, he doesn’t want to. And he can’t breathe either. He’s choking. Through the dizziness and the tingling sensation of needles piercing him all over, he tries to stand. He doesn’t stop even when a new wave of pain shocks him.

_“Jason--!”_

He has to leave, to run, to escape, but he the pain is too much, and if there are men out there, he can’t fight, and he still can’t breathe, no matter how he’s trying…

“No, he will… he will… I have to go, I… I… I can’t…”

He feels he blacks out for a second, and once he’s back, he realizes Bruce is helping him sit up at the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of him, locking eyes with him, holding his hands tightly, rubbing circles with his thumbs on his skin.

“Breathe, Jason. Breathe.”

“I… I can’t…”

“You can. You _can_. Just give it a try. Like me, yes? Look at me.”

Jason does. Tries to focus. Tries to mimic. Bruce’s scent is evidently stronger now, and he knows he’s doing that on purpose, to help him calm down. Instinct tells him that he needs to accept it, so he uses everything he has to drag one deep breath inside. Then another. Then another.

He doesn’t know how much time it takes. It can’t be _too_ long.

As soon as it stops, he feels… exhausted. More than ever before in his life.

“Bruce…?” he croaks.

The man looks relieved beyond words. His hand comes up to stroke his face. “There’s my boy. My good boy. I’m so proud of you, you did so well. But you need to lie down again, all right?”

As Bruce helps him back on the bed and under the covers, he feels his eyes stinging. He has no control over the tears rolling in streams down his face. And, of course, Bruce notices.

“Jay…” he says softly, wiping them away.

“Can… can you stay?” he stammers.

He instantly closes his eyes, not to let any more tears break free. Bruce doesn’t answer, but soon enough, he feels slightly lifted. Strong arms wrap around him, a warm chest presses firmly against his back. He immediately relaxes into the solid body cradling him under the covers, into the familiar rumble that’s being pulled out for him.

Bruce places a kiss on his temple. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You can rest now. _Rest_.”

He’s soon sobbing uncontrollably in his arms. He hates showing such weakness, especially in front of Bruce, and yet, shame cannot prevail against how safe, how _loved_ he feels with Bruce’s arms around him.

Bruce holds him through this, through all of it, tightly, like he’s never going to let go. He’s planting kisses at the side of his face, at his hair, whispering sweet, comforting words.

“Don’t leave me,” he begs at one point through his whimpers. “Please, don’t leave me…”

The arm circling his chest tightens its grip. “ _Never_.”

He weakly turns his head, as much as he can, to glance at him, and his sobs are cut off at the shock the sight of a tears on Bruce’s face causes him.

He’s not trying to hide anything for him. Simply strokes fingers over his chest, over the still rapid beating of his heart. “Close your eyes, Jason. Rest. Just rest. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. I’ll be here when you wake up. I swear it.”

There's a moment of silence between them, before Jason tucks his head under his chin, and Bruce pulls another calming rumble for him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When he wakes up again, the room is dimly lit, the only source of light being the lamp over the bed stand. The sky outside, through the window, is painted with dark blue colors. It could be nearly dusk or nearly dawn. He can’t tell.

Jason feels the warm, firm chest against his back. He turns his head, slightly, and blinks up at Bruce, who somehow looks even more exhausted, but still gives him a smile, from the bottom of his heart.

“Hi,” he says tenderly, kissing his forehead through the black strands embellishing it.

“You stayed,” he observes quietly.

“Of course I did.”

Jason stays silent. He closes his eyes and turns his head a bit more, next to his throat, to breathe his scent again. Bruce cradles him, stroking a hand up and down his chest, keeping his lips pressed to his temple.

“How are you feeling?”

He swallows. “I’m… not sure.”

“But you’re not in pain, are you?”

“Oh… no. No pain.”

Bruce hums, holding his boy to him. Jason’s usually quite uncomfortable, even close to being hostile when softness of such kind comes around, for so long. He doesn’t want special ‘omega treatments’, anything that would make him be considered weak. But right now… right now, he internally wishes they could stay like that for a long, long time.

And yet, as much as he hated spoiling a single moment he shared with Bruce or any other of his loved ones at this point… he just _has_ to know.

“Bruce,” he says quietly, “what happened? How did you… find me?”

He feels him suddenly stiffening a bit, and when he doesn’t get an answer for quite a while, he turns to glance at him again. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows slightly knitted. “You don’t remember anything?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing after… after I was drugged.”

Bruce’s arms are tightening protectively around him at his last word. On the outside, he remains as reserved as possible. Jason, however, instantly detects the change in his scent. It turns suddenly sharper, sour with fury, that he eventually manages to contain. His voice is blank and empty when he speaks. “It was Mask, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean… you’re… _asking_? You don’t _know_?”

Bruce huffs out a breath. “Last night, I received an encrypted message, telling me where you had been. Nothing else. The address was that of an Airbnb apartment, rented under fake identity. I brought you home. A few hours later, I got a call from Gordon.”

He hesitates, Jason can tell. He lightly grips his arm, encouragingly. “What?” his voice comes as a whisper.

Bruce flinches a bit, as he inhales. “He’s dead, Jason. Murdered.”

It takes him some time to process what he’s heard. He looks up at Bruce, only to get a confirming nod, and then lowers himself again, clinging to him tightly, eyes wide shut. “Who?” he manages.

“I don’t know yet.”

He’s dead. Roman is dead, and he’s home.

Jason has no idea how to feel, how to react. Maybe because there’s still a tiny part of him ruled by fear, terrified that all of this is a dream, an illusion or a hallucination.

“Listen to me,” Bruce’s low voice breaks through his thoughts, his hand combing his hair. “If at some point you remember, then you remember. And if you don’t, you don’t. I don’t want you putting any pressure on yourself. Not right now. Understood?”

Jason nods, weakly. He then twists into Bruce’s embrace and buries his face in the curve of his neck, breathing his scent, which has once again turned back to normal. Bruce’s hand then comes to cup his face, thumb caressing his cheek, and…

_Slade._

He can’t quite comprehend why Slade in particular is the one person coming to his mind right now, or why there’s a sudden chill running down his spine. Can’t understand how come Bruce’s affectionate touch brings Slade into the picture.

But then… then he remembers those hands, those huge hands holding him, comforting him through his haze. Huge and calloused, like… like Slade’s, back in Roman’s office. Much like that rumble. He also remembers Slade being… _angry_. Furious, almost, and definitely not at _him_. It wasn’t showing in his face, but in his heavy alpha scent.

The one who saved him… the one who killed Roman… could it have been…

“Jason?”

He glances up at Bruce, and sees his eyes looking at him cautiously, worried once more. He realizes he’s clinging quite tightly to his shirt, and he shudders. He’s probably afraid he’ll go into another panic attack. “I’m okay,” he murmurs to reassure him. “I just… I want some water.”

Bruce eases down a bit. He reaches out for the glass of water over the bed stand and helps him swallow a few sips. Its coolness pacifies his thirst and softens his sore throat. It doesn’t do anything for the repeated waves of nausea rushing over him since the moment he blinked his eyes open, though. And feeling this nauseated is… weird, considering his stomach is painfully empty, tight and miserable.

A dreadful, devastating thought crosses through his mind, his entire body going numb in panic over it.

“Bruce, I…”

His voice is so low, shaking so badly that, for a moment, he’s not certain if Bruce can hear him at all. “I want… I have to check if… if I am…”

Bruce, apparently, _does_ hear him. He understands instantly, as well. He puts a gentle hand over his flat stomach, stroking his fingers over there. “You are not,” he says. “You are not. I ran you a blood test once I got you home, to see what kind of drugs you were in. If there was something, we would know by now.”

The relief is such that tears almost make it to his eyes again. “I just… I feel nauseated, and… so tired…”

“Jason, of course you’re exhausted. Your system has been through shock, and immense mistreatment,” he explains quietly, running his hand through his hair. “That’s all there is to it. It’s going to take a few weeks to get back to normal. And… we’ll see how we’ll handle any possible signs of addiction to the drugs. But there is nothing in your blood… or in any other place that shouldn’t be there.”

Jason, relaxed once more, leans his weight back against Bruce, who turns his head and briefly noses in against Jason’s hair.

“I want to see Alfred,” he catches himself murmuring, almost pleading.

He feels Bruce smiling against the top of his head. “You will, soon enough. He comes up here to check on us both every hour or so.”

He imagines Alfred opening the door, just a smidge each time, picking his head through the crack at the very same time, every single hour, for God knows how many hours, and thinks that as impossibly sweet.

Bruce presses another kiss to his temple. “We’ll get through this. We’ll deal with this. We’ll deal with everything.” He sounds so sure. So adamant about it. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it right now, we will. You have my word.”

Jason desperately needs to believe that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dick is fairly certain he’s ignored more than two red traffic lights, and he’s certainly been registered into the GCPD’s road sensors for speeding. He notes at the back of his head that he’ll need to have Bruce deal with that at some point.

He steps in the manor and climbs the stairs in wide strides, two at a time, his heart racing wildly.

“Dick.”

Bruce stands at the door of his office. Beckons for him to get closer.

“Where is he?” he desperately asks when he steps in the room.

“Take a breath first. You got here fast.”

He got the call from Bruce about twenty-four hours ago, and, considering that, at that time, he had been on an urgent mission with the Titans, at the other side of the world… yeah. He’d gotten back there pretty damn fast. As fast as he could.

“I don’t want to take a breath!” he almost shouts. “I want to see him!”

Bruce takes a seat, not behind his desk, but in one of the armchairs in front of it. “You will. He’s asleep now. Calm yourself. I want you to be tranquil when you get to him. Don’t upset him.”

Dick feels the lump on his chest heaving. “That bad?” he whispers.

At this moment, he could be talking about either Jason or Bruce. He just now realizes, as he studies him, that… he _isn’t_ well.

He looks like a shadow of himself. He had observed, due to Alfred pointing it out, that he’d been losing weight for a while now… ever since Jason has so abruptly disappeared on them. Right now, it’s painfully prominent. Everything in his posture, from his slumped shoulders to the way he winces when he sits down, just scream exhaustion. He’s not well-shaved either, which is a shocker, since he believes he’s never witnessed Bruce with anything but a perfectly smooth jaw.

His eyes when he looks at him lack their usual stealthiness and certainty. “I’ve never seen him like this before,” he says in a low voice.

Dick slowly approaches and takes the opposite seat. “I’ve never seen _you_ like this before,” he retorts just as low. “Bruce. Are you all right?”

Bruce looks straight at him, for several moments. “Alfred thinks I need to sleep more,” is all that comes out of his mouth.

“Well, I definitely, _definitely_ agree with him.”

Bruce clenches his teeth, eyes fixed on the ground, as he draws a deep breath. His harsh expression turns gentler when he looks up at him again. He reaches out one hand and brushes it over his forehead, through his hair. “You’re hurt,” he says softly, his fingers lightly touching some new stitches.

“It’s nothing serious, I’ll be fine. Bruce, I didn’t… quite get what you said on the phone, it was right after a battle and… how are you so sure it was Mask?”

Bruce lets his hand fall again. “Every clue leaded to that conclusion. And Jason confirmed it.”

His heart sinks in his chest. It’s already enough that he’ll soon lay eyes himself on whatever damage this monster has inflicted upon Jason. The last thing he wants is thinking about the process. “But this… this person, the one that killed Mask… why would he care about Jason? How would he know his connection to you in the first place? _And_ the means to contact you as well?”

“It’s someone we know. That’s how,” he says calmly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Someone very capable… and apparently deadly as well.”

“But… _who_?”

Bruce shrugs, expressionless, and Dick instantly realizes that, at least in that particular moment, shocking as it is… Bruce couldn’t care less about it.

“He was here all along,” he says blankly. “Here, in Gotham.”

“Bruce…”

“In _his_ hands, Dick. Black Mask’s hands. For three months.”

He momentarily shuts his eyes. “You couldn’t have known,” he rasps, voice painfully weak. “None of us. Jay… he… he never told any of us if he’d been working on Mask’s cases again…”

Bruce closes his eyes, fingers rubbing circles at his temple. “I should have thought about it. I should have…”

He pauses. Dick takes the opportunity and leans forward. “Bruce, you tried. I _know_ how much you tried to find him. I was here too. If you must take the blame, then share it with me as well. Share it with Tim, with Damian. We didn’t think about anything like this either…”

“You are not his father.”

 _You’re not inclined to protect him like I am_ , Dick reads between the lines.

The thought of how Bruce must be feeling at this point breaks something in him. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says firmly. “All that matters is that he gets better. You can’t let self-blame claim you. Not now. We have a long way ahead of us. Jason _needs_ you. He’ll need you to be strong for the both of you. You can’t help him like this.”

Quite a few seconds pass before he gets an affirmative nod, and he’s relieved to the reaction.

“Look, since… since I’m here now, how about you take a break? Eat something? Get some sleep, maybe?”

“I have to meet Gordon,” he murmurs. “I postponed it last night to stay with Jason, but… this is serious. I have to go.”

“I’ll do it for you, after I’ve seen him,” he offers.

Bruce shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle this. It won’t take long. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

Dick feels quite hesitant. “Okay, fine. Just… have Alfred prepare something for you to eat, alright? Promise. And don’t lie. I’ll ask him.”

Something like a faint smile blooms on his lips, as he gives him a nod. “Go,” he tells him. “Don’t wake him up, if possible. He needs all the rest he can get."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dick steps into the room lightly, closing the door behind him without the slightest noise.

His heart skips and melts in a way he didn’t expect once he sees Jason, lying on his bed, all curled up to himself, deep into the realms of sleep. He’s paler than he’s ever seen him before, and looks incredibly younger, and vulnerable, despite his size.

He approaches cautiously, unshed tears already burning his eyes as he climbs on the bed, beside his sleeping form, and brushes his fingers through his soft strands.

Last time he’d seen Jason, he was happy. He was chilling on some rooftop, his legs hanging casually on the void as he chewed a couple of chili dogs, a bottle of beer and his helmet left carelessly beside him. He’d been watching the official arrest of a bunch of drug dealers he’d beaten up and left for the GCPD to find. He was in such a good mood that night. He sat there with him, and they talked, and they laughed, like they’d rarely done in the past.

And now… now…

He soon finds himself lying beside him. Reaches one hand and very lightly traces his fingers down at that map of marks and scars covering Jason’s neck and upper collarbone, all visible skin. Jason stirs slightly when his thumb brushes over that painfully obvious, deep claiming mark. He retracts his hand immediately, proceeding to rub at his arm, all the way down until he meets the needle marks at the inside of his elbow.

He bites his bottom lip and lets his palm cover those, as if this could make them go away.

Jason's chest rises in a deep breath. He makes a soft sound and stirs again, breathes out a little more heavily, and then his eyes flicker open.

He curses himself for waking him up. Blue grey eyes, still hazed from sleep, cross with his own. He swallows uncomfortably, feeling Jason momentarily stiffening beneath his touch. He instantly proceeds to pull back, internally scolding himself, because, what if Jason _doesn’t_ want to be touched, even in this small kind of way? This _isn’t_ the way to treat a rape victim.

He opens his mouth, looking to mumble an apology, but in the very next moment, as he retracts his hand, Jason whines weakly in complaint, keening towards him.

It’s all the affirmation Dick needs. He moves even closer, fully free to let his affection show, and gently presses them together, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him tight against his chest, desperate to keep him as close as possible. Jason closes his eyes again, and clings to him like a security blanket. He’s still all warm and soft from sleeping. Dick nuzzles his face against his, kissing his cheek, his temple, and then moves to bury his nose against the top of his head, giving Jason the space he’d been looking for to take a deep breath of his scent, which he purposefully spreads.

“My Jason. My little wing,” is all he can whisper, voice shuddering. “I missed you so… so much… I was afraid that… that I…”

His voice breaks into tears he can no longer hold back. Jason is, oddly enough, way more reserved than him. He doesn’t cry. He simply tilts his head up and presses a sweet kiss on his jaw, crooning in comfort. He also wraps his arm around Dick and presses against him, holding on tightly as if he were at risk of being swept away. Dick also takes one small kiss, lips lingering on his forehead, and answers that with a low, steady rumble.

When they part, he holds his forehead against Jason’s. He slowly rubs his hand up and down his back in gentle motions. Enjoys that beautiful moment of peace and calmness, just sharing the air between them.

“Dick,” Jason says after quite a while, his eyes fixed away, at the door. “Where's Bruce?”

“Oh… I think he’s down in the cave. You want me to go get him, little wing?”

Jason shakes his head. “I need to tell you something.”

Dick feels a chill running down his spine, because, if there was something that Jason felt comfortable telling him, but not Bruce… it couldn’t have been good.

“Anything you want, Jay,” he says, pressing another soft kiss on his forehead, ready to deal with everything his brother wanted to share, no matter how terrible. “Anything you want.”

Jason glances at the door, over his shoulder, one last time, and takes a deep breath. His voice is low and quiet when he speaks, as if he’s telling him a secret. “Last time I was conscious in… in his office… Slade was there.”

He freezes.

“Slade…?” he repeats like an idiot.

Jason nods. “Dick, I… I’m only telling you because I know there is… _something_ between you two.”

He clenches his teeth so tightly his jaw starts to ache.

Jason must be sensing his discomfort. “I saw you with him once,” he explains. “About… I don’t know. Close to Christmas, maybe? Seriously, if you want to keep it a secret, you need to be more careful.”

Dick feels his face burning, in both shame _and_ anger. He knows what Jason’s talking about. He remembers. It was the night of the opening of the new Opera House in Gotham. He had _very_ specifically told Slade to ease down a bit, wait until they got somewhere else -his whole damn family had been out on patrol that night. But, unsurprisingly, Slade was in for a game that night, and, much unlike him, he couldn’t care less about anyone seeing. He was eventually able to convince him, but not before a fair amount of foreplay had taken place up there, as well as a deep bite on his neck (as fun as he had letting Slade do that to him, it had taken a whole lot of creative thinking to make up an excuse, since it was terribly prominent).

“You never said a thing,” he says quietly.

Jason gives a small shrug. “It was _your_ relationship. You had your own reasons for keeping it to yourself. I had no right.”

Dick feels he loves him more than ever before at those softly spoken words. He moves to slightly lean over him and kiss his eyelids, before he settles his head back down, but then, his hand that strokes over Jason’s back slows down, growing numb.

“What do you mean by… what do you mean ‘he was there’?” he asks dryly.

Jason takes a breath. “He’d taken a job for _him_. He didn’t _know_.”

Dick’s mind goes blurry, heavy.

“Jay, Slade… he harmed you?”

The words scratch the insides of his throat, and he feels like he’s mind is bleeding at the thought, that raw, horrific thought, that Slade… that Slade could have…

The negative shake of Jason’s head might as well be the most relieving thing he’s ever felt.

“Nothing like that. If anything… I can’t be sure, I could barely figure what was going on, but I think… maybe he’s the reason why it’s over.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! The finale is here!
> 
>  
> 
> At this point, I'm about to deliver many special thanks to [wantstobelieve](https://wantstobelieve.tumblr.com/), since, the discovery of [this](https://wantstobelieve.tumblr.com/post/146856642207/not-in-a-talking-mood-more-its-no) beautiful artwork of theirs provided me with great inspiration for the first part of this chapter. XD
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! :)

He’d been thinking about it more than he should have. More than he cared to admit. About how he would approach the situation once he would, inevitably, meet Grayson again. He supposes _stern_ is the proper way to go, considering how they parted last time -twenty-two days ago, at this point. And yet, once he lays eyes on him, it’s pretty damn hard to stick to that.

Dick sits at the edge of the rooftop, his escrima sticks and mask left aside. Shoulders a little slumped. “Hi,” he smiles at him.

He looks weary, much like expected, but it’s a heartfelt smile, nonetheless. Slade hums, standing over him for a few seconds, before he slides his mask off and takes a seat by him. He detaches his sword and leaves it next to the sticks, along with his gloves, before and turns to look at him again. He raises one hand and slides it over his forehead, tunneling through his hair, letting fingers brush it back. Opening clearer view to those deep blue sapphires he has for eyes.

He looks goddamn ravishing.

“Hey there, kid,” he offers back, eventually.

Dick slightly pushes into his hand, that’s lightly tugging his hair so that his neck arches a bit. Slade breathes his fresh, earthy scent -cypress and pine wood- and as much as he wants to burry his face on that neck that instant, there are other priorities. Namely, getting the conversation to his current point of interest.

“You look weighed down,” he comments.

“I am,” the kid admits.

 _Here’s_ the shot. “You found your brother, I take it?”

Dick, then, locks eyes with him, for several quiet moments. A blank expression rules over his face, and he has a feeling that the kid’s trying to _read_ something in him. “Yeah,” he finally drawls. Cautiously. “We found him.”

He successfully prevents any tension from erupting on the surface. He just gives a nod and a shrug. “And?” he prompts, retracting his hand. “In what state?”

Another inexcusably long silence. Grayson leans his head a little on his right shoulder, studying him. “I think you know.”

He feels his muscles stiffening at the -so very certain- statement. “How the hell would **_I_** know?”

Dick inhales and exhales a breath, with a slow blink. All the muscles of his face relaxed. “Slade,” he says softly. “Come on.”

His annoyance grows by the second, accompanied with a sense of discomfort that, knowing himself, in most cases would end up in fury. Not _now_ , however. Now, he’s just stunned, because Grayson _knows_. He hasn’t directly said it (yet), but it’s beyond obvious by his tone.

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

The kid huffs a short chortle. “Alright, then,” he says mechanically. “Jason is fine, Slade. As a matter of fact, he’s just _peachy_. You were right after all, he’d been on vacation. Just to clear his mind.”

Slade quickly restrains the need to growl at the brat beside him. He never had the patience or the time to play cat and mouse games. He prefers straight-forward situations. And, at those very rare times he’d chosen to just let go and have his fun with an instance of sorts, he most certainly _never_ allowed himself to be the mouse. At that very moment, he was bound to be exactly that, and so, he decides to put an end to it before it fully begins.

It’s exceptionally annoying, if he has to be honest to himself. For the past twenty-two days -yes, he even counted- he hadn’t been able to make it through a proper, eight-hour sleep. Every time he came to relax a little, images and words flashed along in his mind, landing him back to full awareness. The recent events, with Jason. Or, even worse, the most horrifying, older ones, with Grant. Especially during that first week after the event, he could barely get it out of his head at all.

Oddly enough, the thing that haunted him the most these days was the one thing he couldn’t remember, no matter how he tried; his son’s last words.

A kite. A fucking kite.

“Good,” he offers, his eye fixed far and away. “Told you so, didn’t I?”

It’s infuriating, because he _really_ wanted to know how the kid was holding up. And now, since the boy’s decided to play it as such, he’d have to find another way to learn.

Dick tuts, irritated that he wouldn’t admit anything, which Slade considers a personal victory.

Next thing that happens… he hadn’t seen coming. Yeah. He most certainly didn’t expect Grayson to turn and swing one of those fine legs of his over his own, ending up sitting on his lap, hands coming up to lightly grip on his shoulders, to steady himself. A fairly pleasant weight atop of him. Face inches away from his own. Those mesmerizing blues looking straight at his eye.

“Sometimes I hate you so much,” he declares, voice low and a little hoarse, right before crushing lips on his own, his hands now framing his face.

He’s startled for maybe less than a second (he’s not even certain it registers to the kid) before every single one of his instincts jump right awake and he presses Grayson closer, arms clenching tight around the body straddling his waist.

It’s a slow kiss, long in duration. Deep. Sensual. Growing more and more demanding as moments go by, until they’re almost devouring one another. Dick’s hands are roaming like a mad man’s over his upper back and shoulders, curling and pulling at his hair, dull nails digging over his scalp, as his own hands pull him tighter towards him, a strange frustration claiming him, getting him irrationally worried that something would rip him away.

Their faces part for a few moments (there’s a thin line of saliva between them) just enough to get each other unburdened from the restraints of their heavier clothing and armor parts.

“No worries that someone might see tonight, little bird?” he growls in his ear, in that dark whisper he knows sends chills down Dick’s spine. “You don’t want to move somewhere else?”

Dick’s lips are mouthing tentatively against his neck, leaving wet goosebumps behind, as they trail all over, looking for more of his skin, all while his fingers continuously, skillfully unfasten parts of his armor. “I don’t care,” he breathes heavily.

The plush lips return to his once more, as his hand -the one that doesn’t grip Grayson’s hip in a bruising hold- finally finds the zipper at the back of his neck. He pulls it down to his lower back at the very same time as the kid pushes him to lay flat on the ground.

Slade’s hand has a firm hold on his outer, upper thigh, the other sliding through the opening at the end of the zipper to clasp a handful of that ungodly ass, squeezing it tight. Atop of him, his pretty bird tenses at that, but doesn’t lose his nerve. He’s passionate and frantic -and bossier than he’s ever witnessed him before. Which, of course, is fine by him, since he’s in for just about anything, especially when it comes to Grayson. Grayson, whose one hand is now at the side of Slade’s neck, as he uses the other to steady himself, palm open against the ground next to his head. His now bare back and shoulders, all the nicely defined muscles exposed to the cool, clear air. His legs are framing his waist, and their still clothed crotches are pressed impossibly firmly against one another.

“A little wild tonight, aren’t we?” he rumbles, breaking the kiss, rolling his hips against his.

Grayson gasps, once, before he pulls back just a tiny bit, raising an eyebrow. “You’re _complaining_?”

Slade grabs his hips in both hands, pressing him firmly over the impossible stiffness of his cock. “Does it feel like I’m complaining?”

Dick shudders, throwing his head back, eyes shut and lips opening into a silent moan, giving him all the encouragement in the world. The kid then slips himself completely out of the upper part of his uniform with a couple of graceful moves. “Then shut up and just _fuck_ me already.”

Despite the evidently rough tone, there’s a certain desperation, a plead in his voice, and Slade is eager to comply.

“You want us to play rough, boy?”

Rougher he _does_ get, taking control of the situation himself now. He turns him over in an instant, forcing him on his hands and knees, guiding him by one hand firmly gripping the scruff of his neck. Dick grunts at treatment, but the reaction is pleasure more than anything else. His other hand yanks down the rest of his suit, then his underwear, baring him completely.

He pushes the younger alpha further down, making him present himself to him. He admires and revels in the view of those infamous, perfectly rounded buttocks, that are all _his_. His to ravish, his to claim.

He takes one firm cheek to each palm and roughly squeezes, which makes his cock stiffen impossibly into the fabrics it’s still trapped in. Grayson jerks a bit, with a low moan, but isn’t trying to move away. If anything, he backs his hips shamelessly, pushing even more into his hands, which gets him a couple of more squeezes, and a harsh slap.

Grayson gasps, lost in all the sensations. “S—Slade…”

Desperate, already.

Good.

“Hush there, kid. Don’t I always take care of you?”

As soon as he slips one finger in, he's pleasantly surprised at the solid slickness already enveloping him, leading deeper than he originally intended to go. He arches over the younger alpha’s form, lips mouthing at his shoulder blade. “Slicked yourself for me, boy?” he drawls, teeth grazing against his skin. “How thoughtful. That demands reward.”

He slides a second finger in, delving it deep inside, swiftly, but gently. At first. And then, he scissors them both, unavoidably brushing his prostate.

Grayson cracks and arches his back, positively _howling_ at that (his vocal little bird), his thighs trembling impossibly against him, and instantly claps a hand over his own mouth, clearly ashamed of such a sound escaping him, especially out there. Once it’s choked, he slams the fist of that hand down on the ground, hissing something incoherent, and he slightly, wearily turns his head to look back at him, panting.

It’s nice to see his cheeks burning pink with embarrassment, strands falling and sticking over his clammy forehead, his lips wet and red. A pretty picture, one that sends another twitch directly at his cock.

All that’s missing now is a few more, newer marks.

When he opens his mouth to speak, Slade chooses to add the third finger in, eliciting a new series of loud moans. The kid shuts his eyes, his fingernails grazing at the ground as he rocks his hips back at him, fucking himself on his fingers. “Goddamn you, Slade!” he mumbles. “I can’t, come on, don’t… don’t… uuugh!”

Slade chuckles, slowly, lazily but steadily pumping his fingers in and out of him. “What do you say, kid?”

“Please,” he moans the word, instantly. “ _Please_ , Slade, please, fuck… fuck me… _please_!”

Slade hums, retracting his fingers with a satisfying plopping sound. He unzips himself, grabs those hips hard enough to bruise (the kid wants rough tonight, and rough he _will_ get) and sheathes himself right in, in one go.

He fits in like a fucking glove.

Grayson gasps, breath catching. Throws his head back, his whole weight supported at his hands, and goes perfectly still as Slade’s hips press up against him, leaving him so, so deliciously full.

“Slade,” Dick breathes, “Slade, yes! _Yes_!”

He keeps one hand on his hip, lifting the other to forcefully grab his hair, making him further bend into a perfect arc -it’s ridiculously amazing how flexible the kid is. He drives into him with force, grunting at the tightness that’s welcoming him, taking him in powerful, unforgiving thrusts.

He soon slides his hand at the back of the kid’s neck again, to pin him firmly in place and hold him still as he squirms. He leans over his arched figure and lets his mouth roam over his shoulder blades, trying to press as much of his chest as he can against his back. Soon, however, knowing how Grayson appreciates as much physical contact as possible, he moves his grip to his hair again, to tug him up, press his back over his own chest as firmly as it can get.

Dick automatically leans his head back to his shoulder, and Slade warps his arm around his waist, palm flat over that finely muscled stomach, stroking along those abs. He rearranges the grip on his hip as well as he fucks into him, picking up strength and speed. Dick moans, rocking back against the thrusts, turning his head to mouth at his neck, one arm bending backwards, snaking around his head. His voice, a chorus of his name, adds more and more to his own, seemingly endless hunger: _Slade, Slade, Slade, Slade…_

Realizing his orgasm is close, he moves his hand from Grayson’s stomach to take a hold of his hard cock, already leaking precum, and starts stroking, just in time, rhythm matching his thrusts.

“Uuuuugh, Slade!” the kid shouts. “I’m gonna… gonna…”

“Do it. Come for me, boy,” he growls at his ear. “Let go. Come. _Now_.”

He makes his last word commanding, which works perfectly, especially as he enforces his demand by sinking his teeth to that point where his shoulder meets his neck.

Grayson comes with a satisfyingly sharp, breathy cry, clenching tightly around him and filling the air with tons of his scent and a heavy smell of sex and cum. He goes limp on him, completely pliant.

Slade, free to chase his own release now, keeps his teeth attached in place until he feels the first taste of blood at his tongue, as the drive of his hips becomes nothing short of frantic, and maybe a little violent too. Dick gives out small, breathless sounds of pleasure for each thrust, and then a long, soft moan when he spills deep, deep inside.

Slade doesn’t slide out of him, not immediately. He lingers there, fingers running up his torso, caressing his skin in slow, calming motions. Dick, exhausted and completely relaxed over him, stays still, pleased with the familiar contact. Moves his head sideways, to kiss at his jaw, as Slade laps at the few droplets of blood over the bitemark he’d left.

When he eventually slides out and they come apart, Slade lies at his back against the ground, one arm supporting his head. He watches, as Dick slips back into his uniform with shaky hands and slow, tired moves. He doesn’t bother zipping up his back, and Slade damn well knows why. The kid loves a little bit of relaxing contact after sex. He has to admit he enjoys it as well, once he’s gained his own pleasure.

Soon, Grayson leans over and lies down too, pillowing his head against his chest and slipping an arm around him. Slade’s free hand immediately comes to his back, running his fingers up and down his spine, before he starts rubbing at his shoulders, at all pressure points where tension’s gathered up. Dick produces a soft, pleased sound. His fist curls tightly at his shirt. He then weakly picks his head up, staring at him with hazed eyes, looking to catch his mouth in a small, sweet kiss (which Slade gladly grants) before his head falls back down.

He’d missed him. A lot.

“Slade,” he breathes quietly after a while. “Jason told me what happened in Black Mask’s office.”

His hand stops right on spot.

The kid clearly senses his tension, because he goes still, speaking only when the pause is long enough for him to assume he doesn’t intend to retort a thing over it. “He’s convinced it was you that got him out of there.”

This time, in the silence that follows, he picks his head up at looks at him straight in the eye.

“Admit it,” he prompts -almost pleads. “It was you. It was really you, wasn’t it?”

He refuses to answer for yet another time. He looks away, up in the night sky.

No stars tonight. No moon, either.

“How is he?” is all he eventually growls.

He still doesn’t look down. The kid gasps softly, his arms tightening around him. He feels him shifting, moving upwards, and pressing a series of lingering kisses at his jaw. Which would be fine, normally. Except, this time, he’s irrationally annoyed at how thrilled he is -and looks, as he realizes when he lifts his gaze at him- upon it. His eyes filled with gratitude and adoration.

“Knock that face away, or I’ll do it for you, kid,” he growls, aggressively, even though he holds him tighter, in contrast to the words coming out of his mouth. “It wasn’t out of good will or anything. I got paid to kill Mask. _A lot.”_

Grayson smirks, hanging his head to one shoulder. “Of course. ‘Cause you’d never do that to… you know. _Help_. You’re just this big, bad, scary Terminator, right? Not a smidge of good in you.”

He rolls his eye. “Grayson…” he warns.

“Alright, alright,” he shrugs. Dick is always aware of the exact moment when he starts to _really_ annoy him -and always happy to keep it going anyway. “Just, you know… what a caring person your employer must be. I guess it was either Talia al Ghul or Bruce himself that paid you. I don’t know anyone else with that much money that would also instruct you to get Jason out of there, give him a bath, dress him, comfort him, tend to his wounds, keep him safe and warm until you call his father to collect him.”

He says that, and then waits, eagerly, with a look of absolute win in his face. “Brat,” Slade murmurs.

Dick smiles and lays back against him, face nuzzling at his neck. “You saved him,” he says warmly, adoringly. “You saved my little wing…”

Slade chuckles, returning his gaze now. “Your _what_ , now?” he scoffs.

Dick blinks up at him. “I called him that, when he was little.”

“You do realize he’s bigger than you, right?”

It’s amusing to see his cheeks turning red again, this time out of frustration. He lays his head back on his chest. “I don’t care. Mock all you like,” he firmly states. “He’s my little wing. He’s not allowed to grow up.”

Slade would have laughed, offering more sarcasm, if he wasn’t, at that very moment, running out of patience. “Kid. Seriously. How is he?”

Dick stiffens, and Slade intuits the sudden heaviness in the atmosphere as the kid breaks the contact, sitting up and wrapping hands around his knees, resting his chin there. He mimics him, sitting a bit behind him.

It takes a while for him to hoarsely whisper the words. “How do you think he is?”

Slade huffs a breath and lets his hands come up on him, rubbing lightly at his shoulders, pressing a kiss beside the bitemark he left there earlier.

“He doesn’t want to get out of his room,” Dick goes on. “Barely speaks. Barely eats at all. Only Alfred manages to get him to mouth down something, when he pleads with him enough.”

“His health?”

“His stomach is weak. Throws up a lot. It reduces, as days go by. He’s still exhausted, of course. Two broken ribs -those are healing. Occasional… panic attacks. A -luckily- mild addiction to the sedatives he was being injected with. But nothing else. Thank fucking God, right?” he snorts.

“Thank fucking God indeed. It could have been worse.” He pauses. “Way worse.”

Dick turns his head to look at him. “I’ve never felt weaker… more _useless_ in my life.”

“I know, kid,” he presses lips at the back of his neck. “I _know_.”

Dick takes his gaze elsewhere, looking far and away. “What good is being who we are,” he says hoarsely, “if we can’t protect the ones we love?”

_You’ll be able to bathe in it._

He grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaw hurt and blinks twice, to push away everything. Now is not the time.

He finds the zipper and zips him up once more, carefully. “Give yourself a break,” he says. “None of this is your fault, in any way or form. Horrible things happen because horrible assholes _do_ walk all around this earth. You should know that, kid, it’s why you do what you do. You can’t always look out for everyone. You’ll make mistakes. You’ll get careless. You’ll fail. It’s all part of the game. As for what good it is, being who you are, little hero? Go and ask one of those hundreds of people you’ve saved so far.”

Grayson takes a small breath. “I haven’t always been good to Jason.”

He’s troubled to admit it, it seems. Slade keeps his mouth against his temple and waits.

“In fact, I was… kind of awful, at times. I wasn’t beside him back when he was a child. Not even remotely close to how I was there for Damian or Tim. We were never brothers. I was bitter and spiteful to Bruce, and Jason paid for it, even though it was by no means his fault. And then he died, and when he came back… Instead of going to him, taking him in my arms, telling him how very sorry I was… how much I wanted things to be different now, I… I fought him, Slade. That’s all I did. Fought him all the time, told him harsh, terrible words, and… it took so long for us to find a code of communication. And now… now this happens, and… I don’t know how to handle this.”

Slade slips an arm around his shoulders. Dick leans against his solid body, resting his head against his shoulder. “Well… he needs you now. If you’d really been that awful, then this is a good chance to make it up to him.”

“But I don’t know how to help him,” he whispers painfully. “I want to. I want nothing more than that. I just… I have no idea how.”

“Just be beside him, kid. He’ll let you know what he needs. Don’t expect him to directly say it, but you’ll read the signs.”

Dick turns and nuzzles his face at the side of his neck, at his scent glands. “I hope you’re right.”

Slade hopes so too. He hopes that, because there’s that part inside of him… that part that obsessively _needs_ to believe that, if Grant was alive, he would have a chance to recover as well.

“He’s alive, Grayson,” he tells him blankly. “That’s all it matters.”

Dick looks at him, and… the kid is no idiot. It’s obvious that he’s figured something out of all of this. Thankfully, though, he’s further proving his goddamn perfection by being completely respectful about it and settling for simply shifting to lay his head on his shoulder.

Slade’s hand automatically comes up to card fingers through his hair, stroking along his scalp, but he’s mind’s far gone now.

He thinks about that infamous kite again. And about the only person in the world that had a chance of knowing -remembering- what it meant.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jason doesn’t bother answering the knock at his door.

He’d been sitting by the window, starring at the cloudy, afternoon sky, his forehead resting upon the cool pane. For some time now. For hours, maybe.

When the knock repeats itself and he still doesn’t answer, he hears the soft clicking of the door. Silence, and no sound of footsteps approaching, which means it’s probably Bruce. His assumption is confirmed a few moments later, when he feels a broad hand coming to rest upon his shoulder, lightly rubbing him there.

“Jason?”

He blinks, once, and slowly turns his head to look up at him. Bruce gives a tender, small smile, his hand rising from his shoulder, combing fingers through his hair. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

Jason shakes his head and turns back to looking outside the window. Bruce is home quite early today, he believes. He’d been sleeping when he left, so he hadn’t seen him since last night.

After he took the entire first week off his duties -from both work and most nocturnal activities, with Dick often replacing him- Bruce seemed reluctant to spend long hours at the office in general, coming back home long before his usual time schedule.

“How are you feeling today?”

His voice is soft, which only adds to Jason’s inexplicable irritation. “Alight, I guess."

Bruce says nothing, and he knows the pause means he expects more, even though he doesn’t directly ask. He takes a deep breath, and huffs out the air heavily, to make his annoyance clear. Bruce still waits, patiently.

“I didn’t throw up today,” Jason offers, eventually.

Bruce flinches, his hand coming back to his shoulder to squeeze tight. “That’s good,” he says warmly. “That’s good to hear, son—"

“Stop sounding so pleased, will you?” he suddenly snaps at him, abruptly turning his head to shoot him an angry look. “Acting like every little bullshit is progress!”

He immediately regrets, once their gazes cross. He turns away again, heat rising to his cheeks. He has a feeling of Bruce crouching beside him, his hand gently cupping the side of his face.  “Jason,” he says firmly, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. “Jason, this _is_ progress.”

He closes his eyes and swallows. Sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize to me. Not for this.”

“I just…”

He doesn’t really know what to say. Or, more accurately, there are _so many_ things he wants to let out, but simply doesn’t have the strength to do so.

Bruce gets up and sits beside him, at the edge of the windowsill, slipping an arm around his shoulders. He’s still stiff, and it takes a moment for him to lean back against him, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I don’t mean to be difficult,” he murmurs.

Bruce’s arm tightens around him, holding him closer. “Jason, this is _not_ being difficult. And if you want to be, well… you’re allowed to.”

Jason catches himself smiling. “Just this once?”

He reads another smile to Bruce’s exhale, to his lips that are pressed at the top of his head. “Just this once.”

Several minutes pass, with them sitting like that. It’s nice, lingering there, with his alpha’s strong, steady arm around him, his scent on his nose, making him feel content and protected.

“Jason,” Bruce says then, voice calm, but cautious, “how would you like to come downstairs for…”

“No.” The word comes to his lips, quietly, but sharply, before he even finishes his sentence.

“Jason…” Bruce tries to insist.

“I said no.”

Ever since he woke up back to his room, with Bruce by his side, he hadn’t left the place for even a second. The first two days, he was a complete ruin -he _physically_ couldn’t. He spent the entire first week almost completely bedridden, and then… he didn’t even want to hear about it. Everyone came to him in there, in multiple occasions, to visit him, to check on him, to bring him something to eat… to see how he’s doing.

There were times that he felt he was suffocating in there, and still… he couldn’t bring himself to step out. He knew that, at some point, he _had_ to do it. But every time he reached at the doorstep, the thought that he now had to face the world behind it, the whole wide world, carrying this sting, this unwashable stain inside him… _on_ him…

He felt that everyone would know. Everyone would see. Everyone would look at him, pity in their eyes, and they’d just _know,_ instantly.

“I’m not going to pressure you,” Bruce says against his temple. “But you _know_ it’s not good for you to stay locked up in here all the time.”

“I know,” Jason swallows. “I’d… I’d like to go outside. Walk in the yard a little. I just…”

He pauses. Bruce combs his fingers through his hair. “With your ribs, you might not be able to do that for a while more. You can, however, sit outside in the porch. Or simply in the living room. And what about the library? You always loved the library. You can even come down in the cave, if you like. Trust me, we’ll find something to keep you busy.”

Jason smiles. “How many open cases right now?”

“Thirteen. I’m telling you, you’ll be _working,_ not just sitting around.”

He lets out a small, quiet chuckle. When he glances at Bruce, he catches him opening and closing his mouth again, as if he meant to say something, but then regretted it. “What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Bruce says immediately. “It’s not a talk for now. Forget about it.”

“No, come on, tell me,” he prompts, sitting up a little.

Bruce huffs a breath and wets his lips, hesitantly, thinking about it for a few seconds, before wincing, as he decides to proceed to it.

“You will get better, eventually. You _will_ recover. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, you will. And once this happens, I… I guess you’d want to leave. Which is normal, of course. It’s not a bad thing. I just… I’ve been thinking…”

It’s always been an odd, yet funny thing, watching Bruce struggling with words -the extremely rare times he’d witnessed that happening. If the occasion was different, he would have definitely run a search on his brain to find a smartass line and taunt him with it.

When he speaks again, he’s glad he didn’t proceed to that. His voice is low, warm and affectionate.

“I’d like to see you more often, Jay,” he says softly, running a hand over Jason’s forehead. Plainly. Honestly. “Not just on patrols, or when something bad happens. I don’t…” He takes a moment. “I don’t want us to be like _that_ anymore. I want you… closer. To the family… to me.”

Jason is… stunned. At loss for words. At loss for thoughts, even. He hears him in silence, feeling the surrealism of this whole thing making his mind float. Empty, relaxed and pliant. It’s like he’s been hypnotized.

Is this for _real_?

“I’m not trying to bring you back and keep you here, suffocate you in the family without letting you spread your wings. Not at all,” he explains. “I just… I’d like to try and build… something better. I still don’t know the way, and I don’t dare to hope that it’ll be like it used to be when you were little, but… I believe we _can_ try and find a common code of communication… of understanding.” He shifts, uncomfortably. “If, however, for any reason, you don’t feel ready for it…”

“I can come by every second Sunday or so, when I’m close. You know… for lunch and shit. And spend the night, too.”

His voice escapes his throat without his brain directly ordering it to do so. He doesn’t regret it. Especially when he sees the uncertainty and frustration leaving Bruce’s face within an instant, to be replaced only by restrained, yet obvious delight.

“It sounds great,” he says, placing a soft kiss at his forehead.

Jason can’t remember the last time he felt this light in his life.

“I hope it goes without saying,” Bruce drawls a little later, “that you can come and talk to me at any time. About anything you might want to get out of you, no matter how terrible or terrifying you think it is. I’m here. And if you don’t want or can’t talk to me, or Alfred, or Dick… we’ll find someone else. Just say the word.”

Bruce lightly touches his chin and tilts his head up to meet his gaze.

“You are my life, Jason. My whole life," he almost whispers, as if at risk that someone else might hear. “You and your brothers. I love you, my boy. My son. I love you more than anything.”

Jason clenches his teeth, because, if anything comes out right now, it’ll probably be a sob. He just gives a small nod, and sinks back to his embrace, hoping this is enough to pass back the message. Bruce holds him like dear life, and Jason curses at all the time they’d lost so far. First due to the demons that had forced them apart, and then due to both of them being such goddamn, stubborn idiots, that didn’t seem able to simply open their mouths and say what they felt. What they _really_ felt.

He clings to his father tighter and shuts his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The door opens before he’s set a hand on the door nap. Or the lock.

Adeline’s hair’s messy, drawn back. Her frame looks tired and humped in her overworn white t-shirt and sweatpants -she most definitely needs a shower. Her eyes are _bored_ as she looks at him, expressionless, and then turns her back on him, heading to the kitchen. Leaving the door open for him to come in.

“Spare me,” she says, idly. “It’s my one night off.”

He shuts the door and follows her. There are tons of paperwork spread all over the table, and an open bottle of wine. No glass.

He can’t help but scoff. “And you’re clearly having the time of your life.”

Oddly enough, she doesn’t look angry, or eager to answer his provocation with something equally sharp. “What do you want? I know I’m not doing anything regarding _you_ at the time, so…”

Slade takes one of the seats around the table and comfortably sprawls backwards into it, crossing arms over his chest. Adeline rolls her eyes. “Slade, I’m _this_ close to…”

“No, you really aren’t,” he cuts her off, eye lazily darting around. “You’re not in the mood. I’m not either.” He looks her up and down. “You look like shit.”

She chuckles. “You’re one to talk. _You_ look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Slade shifts. Doesn’t meet her gaze. “I haven’t. Not really.”

She takes a seat as well, huffing. Balances her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. “Good.”

The malevolence in her voice is much more subtle than the usual. It’s probably out of exhaustion.

He realizes he doesn’t know where to begin, or which is the right way.

“I saved a kid the other day.”

She hums, leaning to the back of her chair, dragging the bottle along with her. “My hero,” she says, blandly. “How much did you get paid for it?”

“Six million.”

“Wow,” she offers with utter indifference, taking a sip.

“I didn’t do it for the money.”

She raises an eyebrow, scoffingly, but doesn’t comment on that. Waits for him to go on. He doesn’t intend to get to it in detail. There’s no need for that. Not with Adeline.

“I took a job, one ridiculously easy job, for a big head, and after it was done, he wanted to talk to me personally. When I got to him… he had this kid with him. An omega boy. Handsome thing. Large, by omega standards. Tall and strong. Twenty-something, I suppose? I don’t fucking know. Early twenties, anyway.”

She’s frowning now, gritting her teeth, all remaining color drained from her face. She knows where this is going.

“He _offered_ him to me…”

Adeline instantly tenses, like she was hit by electricity. “I don’t want to hear that,” she declares abruptly.

Slade lifts one hand and lets his fingers rub circles over his temple. “I know,” he retorts, “but I’m telling you anyway, because only _you_ can understand this. So brace yourself.”

Adeline shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move from her seat, either.

“The prick had multiple contracts on his head. One of those stood out, and so, I took it.” A pause. “He was raping him when I got there. The kid was drugged, and was all but crying under him."

The words scratch his throat. When he looks up at her, her eyes are pure glass. “Tell me you made it painful.”

He nods.

Addie’s gaze fixes upon the ceiling. She sips her wine and doesn’t speak, for a long, long time. “The kid?” a rasp comes from her, eventually.

“He’s with his family now.”

She puts the wine down and rubs her eyes. Pushes back messy wisps of hair that’s escaped her bobble. “Well,” she points out, “lucky them. It’s the first time your trauma does something useful for anyone, I think. Not for you, though. I guess you’ll be staying up many more nights.”

She’s trying to be a bitch about it, but it’s an utterly ridiculous try, because they both know she’s only faking being reserved.

Slade leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and crossing hands. “Before he died, Grant asked me if I remembered a kite we once made."

A spark in her gaze. “What…?”

“I know. I didn’t tell you.”

He’s completely prepared to face a rage attack in the face of the reveal, either verbal or physical. Her reaction, however, is anything _but_ violent. She _gasps_. Swallows. He notices her hand gripping at the table, fingers digging into the wood, and then, her expression… softens.

“He remembered that?” Her voice is deep and hoarse, and right now, she doesn’t make any attempt to hide the fact. “He was only four… just a baby…”

He stops breathing. “You remember it?”

Adeline stares at him. It takes her a moment to overcome the surprise and momentary vulnerability she’d fallen into.

“Oh—oh, my,” she says quietly. “ ** _You_** don’t, do you? That’s why you’ve come here?”

It sounds much like an accusation, and it might as well be one.

There’s a cold, stern laugh. “You sad, pathetic fool. I don’t know if I should loathe you or pity you.” She picks up one finger. “One. One time in your life you treated him like an actual father would… and you can’t even remember it.”

It’s taunting. And it works. He feels his patience wearing out. “Speak, Adeline,” he says, his tone lowering to something terrifyingly serious.

“Good lord. You _are_ the strongest person I’ve ever known; I’ll give you that. How were you able to live with this? Carry this, for ten years?”

“You can keep rambling all you like, but don’t expect either of us to leave this room until you give me what I want.”

She leans forward, eyes glimmering in the semi-darkness. “It’s been haunting you, hasn’t it? All these years. And now that you saw with your own _eye_ what that prick did to that kid… you couldn’t help but start thinking again what _they_ did to our own. To our boy. To our son. What did you see when you walked in there, Slade? Did you see Grant on his face?”

He’s far too tired to try and maintain his patience any longer.

He explodes. Jumps up and swings the table off the way, flipping it, and now there’s nothing between them. A loud crash, and broken glass all around the kitchen floor.

“My wine,” Adeline murmurs, looking down, outrageously peaceful, like it had simply slipped from her hands.

He’s right in front of her with two strides, looming over her. “Don’t test me. Not right now. Not over this,” he warns. “I _need_ to know this.”

“No. You don’t deserve it.”

He feels he’s either going to kill her, or fuck her, or maybe both, because, frankly, those are his only two choices here. Addie isn’t afraid of him, she never had been, not even when he’s at his worst, and he has nothing to threaten her with. The reason why she’s so calm, after all, is because she’s already won, and she knows it.

So. Fuck her or kill her it is. And yet, deep down, he knows he won’t be doing any of those things tonight.

Not the latter, at least.

She gets up, straightening her back, looking at him fearlessly, right in the eye, just being who she is, who she’s always been. “You survived this far. You’ll live.”

He doesn’t want to kill her, but he _does_ want to hit her -and fuck her. He’s quite certain she wants to do that to him as well. She and her wild, untamed, inextinguishable fire, which is a part of him.

_Mate._

Mate. Yes. You only get one in a lifetime.

But he did get their son killed. And now there’s no moving on for either of them. Together or apart.

“Tell me.”

She finds her lost grace there for a second. Slips her arms around his waist, and lightly presses her form over his, her forehead on his neck. He breathes her. Alcohol, and sweat, and then her scent. Her damn scent.

His mate.

She picks up her eyes and looks at him. In fury. In challenge. In _pain_.

“No,” she breathes against his lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 It’s day twenty-four, 18:30 pm, when Jason steps out of his room.

The corridor is quiet, as expected. As is the whole house, most probably. Dick had left for the weekend and was about to come back that night. Bruce, if he wasn’t already down in the cave, must have been on his way back from work.

Nothing feels weird. It feels like it was just yesterday, walking these halls. A sweet warmth of familiarity surrounds him as he wanders around on the upper floor, stopping by the library for a while and picking up a book -he’d read everything in his room, and the two new ones Bruce brought him- and then heading for the stairs. He grimaces a little at the pain on his right side as he goes down. Brings up his left hand to lightly press it over there, support himself a bit.

He goes straight for the kitchen, where he already knows he’ll find Alfred. He’s slightly leaning on the counter, tapping his fingers over there, reading something from a piece of paper he’s holding in his hand, quite concentrated. He doesn’t pick up his eyes until Jason pulls a chair to sit down.

“Hi, Alf,” he manages to form up a smile.

Alfred instantly straightens his back in slow moves, setting the paper aside as if it meant nothing. The look on his face is one of utter joy and delight upon gazing at the unexpected surprise in front of him. “Master Jason,” he says warmly, taking a step forward, hands crossing behind his back. “Good evening.”

Jason takes a breath, and sets the book on the table in front of him. “I went to the library first,” he says, blushing a little at how childish he must be sounding, “and I, uh… I got a little… hungry.”

He’s surprised that his statement is so true. During the past three weeks, his stomach troubled him a lot, but never, not once, out of hunger.

Alfred nods, smiling himself. “And what would you like to have for supper?”

“Oh… don’t bother. Anything you’ve got on store,” he shrugs.

Alfred glances at piece of paper he had dumped behind. “There is a new recipe we might try… but I think it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Does Bruce want something in particular?”

Alfred lifts an eyebrow. “If master Bruce wanted to have a say in that, he should have been home in time. Or at least given us a phone call.”

Jason believes the short laugh that escapes him is his very first in months. Alfred’s face shines as if he knows that.

“How about… mac and cheese?”

“Macaroni and cheese, it is,” Alfred nods. “And we might add some grilled asparagus and tomatoes with one-pan eggs.”

“Sounds delicious,” he agrees.

“And will you be joining Master Bruce in the dining room, or you prefer to have your own supper in your room?”

Jason rubs at the back of his neck. “In the dining room, I think.”

Alfred now must be putting up huge effort to keep his happiness as contained as he eventually manages. “Then I guess he won’t care what I serve him at all. Even if it is unboiled pasta.”

He’s moving towards the pantry as he speaks, but stops midstride and turns to look at him as he slowly gets up from the chair.

“Master Jason?” _What the hell do you think you’re doing?_

“I can help,” he offers, only to be cut off by an abrupt movement that sends a jolt of pain to his ribs.

Alfred frowns. “Sit down and read your book, sir.”

His expression is one that every single person in the family knows perfectly well -one that doesn’t take no for an answer. And so, Jason sits back down again, and lazily opens the collectible, leather bound copy of The Name of The Rose, as Alfred brings on the materials needed and puts them on the kitchen counter.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to read this one, but Bruce always said I was too young to fully comprehend the meaning of it. Come to think about it, he might just have been…”

He stops talking once he gets a feeling of Alfred’s silhouette over him, and then he’s softly pulled into the sweetest embrace he’s received since he came back. Alfred kisses the top of his head, and says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

Jason sinks to the heartwarming moment.

It will be alright.

It will get better.

He has to believe that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Only himself and probably the ghosts of the dead stroll around the graveyard at this hour.

He’s never visited this grave after the funeral. Not once. Never felt the need. Never saw the point. His son was gone, taking the last bits of what made him human with him. There was nothing in that coffin, buried six feet under. Nothing but empty, soulless bones. He’s always been adamant about it.

And yet now he stands there, like he’s expecting an answer to his question. He stands there, gazing at Grant’s name carved on that old, yellowing stone, with barely two hours of sleep, with Adeline’s scent all over him and her slick still on his cock, and all the world clenching tightly around him, suffocating him.

No more rage. All tension and frustration now gone. Replaced with an emptiness, a dreadful void which is far worse, in every way possible.

He crouches, like he’s expecting to hear something from the ground, but of course, nothing comes.

His gaze starts wandering around. There’s a light breeze, and he notices what seems to be sheets of paper, flirting with soon flying in the wind. They’re fixed down between other objects, bouquets of flowers, teddy bears and other toys, all laying over a nearby, clearly fresh grave.

He stands and walks there. Takes one in his hand. They’re drawings, children’s drawings. He looks at the tombstone;

 

_Our little angel, our brave fighter, Stacy_

_No more fear, no more pain_

_Mom and dad will always be with you_

_Stacy Anastazio_

_MAR. 2, 2014_

_JUNE 4, 2019_

 

He puts the drawing back to the place where it had almost skipped from, securing it with the weight of what appears to be a music box, and then turns to leave.

And then…

He freezes. His breath catches. He glances back to where his son is buried.

And he remembers.

 

***

 

 

_“I’m going to the store, won’t be late. Keep an eye on him, will you?”_

_Slade, who’s currently fixing the crooked garage door, winces. He raises his head and glances at their four-year-old, who’s currently climbed on his knees upon an old, wooden chair. His markers and a few white sheets of paper are sprawled all around him, and he’s very busy drawing._

_He shoots Addie a look._ _“Will you be late?”_

_“It’s five minutes away, Slade,” she growls._

_Slade huffs, fully turning to her, and lowers his voice. “I’m busy here…”_

_“You don’t have to **do** anything, alright?” she rolls her eyes. “He’s busy too, as you can see. Just make sure he doesn’t go near the tools or anything.”_

_“Can’t you just wait until I’m finished?”_

_“No,” she says stiffly. “Not if you want to eat lunch today.”_

_“I can go out for lunch,” he says abruptly, without giving it much thought._

_He immediately regrets it, but, classically, he’s far too arrogant to take it back or apologize. It’s not just **his** fault that there’s this heated tension between them. He’d just got back last evening after about a month of being away, and Adeline was already in a mood, for reasons unknown. And yes, this tended to happen a lot, but usually when he was leaving, not ever since the very first moment he stepped foot in the house._

_He grits his teeth and waits for the reaction._

_She glares at him for a few seconds, and then lets out an ironic chuckle. “Is that supposed to be a threat? You wanna go, then **go**. The door is open,” she gestures to the yard. “It’ll be just regular noon for us. It won’t make any difference.” She then turns, with a relatively more affectionate look, to their son. “Grant! You want Oreos?”_

_Grant raises his head, tapping his chin with the back of the marker he’s holding as he’s thinking. “Choco Moo’s,” he requests._

_She gives him a nod and walks away without another word._

_Slade climbs back to the small step ladder and continues his work. Changes the bottom rubber seals, since the door’s showing laid on both sides. He’s taking the tools back to their place once he’s done, not long after._

_He takes off the gloves, staring at his son, who’s still at his own ministrations, and he does feel an unpleasant pinch of guilt in his guts. Grant is no trouble to look after for a while. He’s not one of those naughty, noisy brats. He’s a good kid._

_“What’re you drawing, squirt?” he asks,_ _approaching at the opposite side of the counter, placing his palms flat over there and crooking his head a little._

_Grant doesn’t look up at him. “Jus’ mommy and me, and some trees.”_

_Sure. Mommy and him. No daddy._

_Fair enough, he supposes._

_“When you leave, do you work in a ship?”_

_“What?” he raises an eyebrow. “How’d you come up with that?”_

_Grant stops for the first time and glances at him, with those ice-blue glass beads of eyes he has. “Randal’s dad is also in the army, but he works in a ship.”_

_“It’s called the navy,” he faintly smiles. “And no, I’m not in the navy. Who’s Randal?”_

_“A kid from school.”_

_“Friend of yours?”_

_“No. I don’t like him. Just a kid from school.”_

_Slade laughs a little. He doesn’t even know why he finds it funny, but… most things are funny, when spoken by kids. Especially when you realize they actually **are** smart enough to be able to discriminate their friends from just anyone._

_“Mommy’s sad when you leave.”_

_The statement, spoken so simply and naturally, makes everything inside him go numb._

_“Is that so,” he says quietly. A pause, while Grant nods. “I’d expect she’d be pissed.”_

_“First she is angry. Then she gets sad, and cries.”_

_Slade grits his teeth at the sting this causes. He’s seen Adeline in all kinds of moods, but the only time he’s ever seen her cry was when Grant was born -and those were happy tears._

_“And what do you do when this happens?”_

_“I hug her. Then we sleep on the couch, and when she wakes up, she makes cookies.”_

She’s not happy. _They_ are not happy. Neither her nor your kid, _an irritating voice speaks directly inside his head. It’s that voice that always sounds suspiciously and irritatingly like Wintergreen._

_“What about you? Do you get angry, or sad?”_

_Grant just shrugs, painting the leaf of a tree with a bright green marker, not looking up. “When are you leaving again?” is all he gets, instead of an answer._

_“In five days.”_

_“Is that long?”_

_Slade stares at the void. “I really don’t know.”_

_It’s certainly not enough._

_“Do you love her?”_

_He’s genially relieved he can at least answer that without having a second thought about it. “I do.”_

_Grant picks up another marker, an orange one. “I love someone too.”_

_He can’t hold back a smile. “Yeah? Who?”_

_“Betty. She’s from school.”_

_Slade hums. “Is she pretty?”_

_“Very. She has brown hair,” he looks at him again, pushing back a strand falling over his forehead. “Yesterday, we were playing and she scratched me. Look,” he demonstrates his forearm, where two lines of small, fading scratches lie. “And then I pulled her hair.”_

_Slade grins. Like father..._

_“Tomorrow, I’ll get her a flower.”_

_“Nice. Smart move, kid.”_

_Slade pulls close a rusty stool from nearby and sits on it. He leans over the counter, looking at the drawing. “It comes out nicely,” he observes._

_Grant nods. He puts the lid back on his marker. “It’s for you.”_

_Slade stares like an idiot. “What?”_

_“It’s mommy and me, for you,” he pushes the drawing towards him, leaning his head to one shoulder. “So that you don’t forget us.”_

_Slade means to say that he **does** have a picture of them -many pictures of them- but no voice comes out. He remains speechless, staring at his son, who simply fishes another sheet of paper and gets back to it immediately. Eventually, he pulls the drawing to him, thinking about all those times he’d mocked those idiotic parents pretending the crap their children crafted were masterpieces. He recalls something Bill said once; that everything one mocks in others, he ends up taking it upon himself. Apparently, he’s right once more, since, as far as he’s concerned, this ugly mimicry of colorful human beings he sees on that paper is a fucking piece of art._

_He just sits there, watching Grant for many long seconds, studying him. That so very serious, focused expression on his face. His little eyebrows knitted in an impossibly cute frown._

_It’s almost unbelievable to him. Inexplicable. He couldn’t quite comprehend it. How on earth two major assholes like Addie and himself were able to produce something so good and pure?_

_He reaches out one hand and brushes his fingers through his pup’s hair. “I could never forget you,” he says._

_Grant shrugs. Keeps drawing._

_Slade’s eyes dart around in the garage, falling upon the silicone glue and the cutters over one counter, and… he has an idea._

_Grant doesn’t look up at him when he walks away, nor when he starts wandering around, picking up the materials needed for what he had in mind, so he starts making as much noise as possible to get his attention._

_He manages it. As soon as he noisily sets aside a large, metal adjustable wrench in order to get the thin wooden dowels he’d been looking for, Grant jumps a little and looks up at him with startled, big, clear blue eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze now curiously follows his every move, as he sets down over the opposite counter all the things he’d gathered, humming a note. Not long after, the boy slips down from the chair and comes beside him._

_“What are you doing?” he asks timidly, with genuine interest._

_“Oh, nothing much,” he answers lazily. “Just making a kite.”_

_Even with just the corner of his eye, he still his whole face brightening up, his eyes growing wide. “A real kite?” he gasps._

_“A-ha.”_

_Slade is surprised at how he still remembers how to do that, but he guesses that, whatever you become an expert in, you never truly forget. And he **had** spent an entire summer, back when he was fourteen, making kites for at least four hours a day. He’d been working under-the-table on a local store. It helped on both staying for as long as possible away from his own bastard father, and also, making some money to buy his first beers._

_“Can I help?” comes the instantaneous plea, full of longing._

_He’s humming, scratching his jaw, pretending to be thinking about it very seriously. “Hmm. I don’t know. See, you have to want it enough…”_

_“I want it, I swear!” Grant exclaims, almost in agony. “Please?”_

_Slade holds back a laugh. “Hmm. Alright, then. Go get your markers. We’ll need those too.”_

_By the time Adeline comes home, they’re half-way through with it. Slade would lie to himself if he’d said he doesn’t amuse over the baffled expression on her face as she slowly, cautiously approaches from outside. “What is… going on?” she asks suspiciously, one eyebrow lifted._

_Grant, who’s lying now prone over the counter, passionately painting all over the white sheets of crafting paper laid in front of him, looks at her, utterly enthusiastic. “We’re making a kite!” he all but shouts._

_“A… what?”_

_“A **k-i-t-e** ,” Slade spells for her. “Mommy’s not very smart today, Grant.”_

_“She’s smart,” Grant defends her. “She only isn’t when she makes me eat broccoli and other green things.”_

_“Why, thank you very much,” she sneers before turning to Slade. “It’s alright, I can get him now, if you want.”_

_“Hmm,” Slade bellows, putt_ _ing down the tape he’d used to attach the pieces. “I don’t want. We’re fine. Aren’t we?” he looks at Grant._

_Grant vividly nods to his mother. “He said he loves you.”_

_Addie frowns, in an unsuccessful try to hide any surprise at that. The blush on her cheeks, slight as it is, betrays her._

_“Did he, now,” she drawls, getting closer, still holding the shopping bags in one hand, and passing Grant the marker he was reaching for with the other._

_Slade moves closer. “He did,” he confirms, running his hand down her spine to end up further down, where Grant certainly doesn’t have a view, and gives her ass a light squeeze._

_Her scent instantly grows sharper, in a way that even another beta would have noticed, let alone Slade. It hits him in an instant. He takes a step closer so that their bodies -their hips- are pressed, and spreads his own scent as well._

_Addie clenches her teeth, apparently to cut off a gasp, and maintains a stern look in her face. She doesn’t break the contact, though. A few seconds later, she slips her free hand over his own and presses it more firmly over her, basically guiding him. “You might be getting bipolar, you know,” she says quietly._

_Slade smirks. “I might.”_

_It does get him the faint, sneaky half-smile he was aiming for. Next thing he knows, a sudden, sharp pinch in his hand makes him retract it -he barely holds back a snarl. Her smile turns into a grin, something dark and wicked._

_They fit like fucking peas and carrots._

_“So,” she raises her voice again. “Menu says spinach with…”_

_“Noooo!” Grant groans in complaint, stopping his painting for a second. “Mommyyy!”_

_“Today you’ll like it.”_

_Grant pouts. “You always say that, and it always sucks."_

_“Let’s go eat outside.”_

_Addie looks at him, stunned at first, pleasantly surprised in continuation. “Really? All three of us? You won’t go **alone**?”_

_“But, the kite?” Grant cries out._

_“The kite first,” he reassures him. “Then we go.”_

_Grant looks pleased. Addie looks pleased as well, albeit a little suspicious._

_“Okay, then,” she says, cautiously. “I’ll go put these…”_

_“What’s from the drug store?” he points to one of the smaller bags she’s holding._

_She looks at him for quite a few moments, with a strange, unreadable look. “I…” She stops, glances at Grant and points at him with a slight move of her head. “Later.”_

_He knits his eyebrows. “Good or bad?”_

_Adeline gets thoughtful. And hesitant. “We’ll see,” she only says before she walks off._

_He doesn’t get the time to process that, since Grant’s pulling at his shirt. “I’m done,” he says._

_The sandlot laying behind their house is a perfectly fitting place for it. The sky was cloudy, but yet the temperature just fine, and the wind, quite frankly, helped a lot. Slade was generous about the twine, letting it go so fast the string ended up burning fiery lines across his palm. He swears out loud, but Grant is way past noticing at this point._

_“Daddy! Daddy, look, it’s going up, it’s going up!” Grant screams joyously, jumping up and down._

_“Yeah, my man, would you look at that!” Slade laughs -actually **laughs**._

_Above them, the kite, with Grant’s paintings on its sheets, is dancing in the skies. Grant is breathtaken, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. Looks up at it, staring in awe, not speaking a word for a long while._

_“Can I fly it, dad? Can I fly it too?”_

_Slade crouches behind him and puts the twine around his fingers. He winds it around them and guides his hands with his own. Grant’s eyes are on the kite, and his are on Grant. His kid’s more thrilled -and happy- than he’s ever seen him before. Than he’s ever seen anyone before._

_It’s almost instinctive, the low rumble he pulls. Grant, also instinctively, leans back over his chest. His enthusiasm eases down a little, to make some space for calmness and peacefulness on his features._

_“What’s that sound?” he asks, resting his head back against his shoulder._

_Slade stops. “It’s called a rumble,” he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s what alphas do for the people they care about.”_

_Grant stays silent for a few moments. “It’s nice,” he decides. “I want to be an alpha and do that too.”_

_“You might be,” Slade says, thinking that it’s probably going to be the case, indeed. He was an alpha, and so were both his and Adeline's father. The_ _chances of their own kids also presenting as such are literally fifty percent, leaving of one twenty-five percent for betas and omegas._

_“And I want to be flying too,” Grant continues. “I want to fly in the sky, I want to be a pilot.”_

_“That’s nice,” Slade agrees. “It’s a nice thing.”_

_“Do you have pilots in the army?”_

_“A whole lot of them.”_

_Grant nods, eyes always on the kite. “Then I’ll be one and I’ll be coming with you when you go.”_

_“Yeah,” Slade says after a while. “Yeah, we can do that.”_

_Grant’s enthusiasm soon climbs back at its earnest._

_“Loooook, I’m flying, flying faaaaaar and away…”_

_Slade gets up, unexpectedly hefting the boy into the air. Grant gives a surprised, enthusiastic shrill as he then lands upon his shoulders. “There you go, you’re now flying too.”_

_Grant laughs and howls, maneuvering the kite in all kinds of crazy rides. “Now you,” he says after quite some time, passing him back the twine._

_Slade takes it. “You wanna find a name for her?”_

_“Uuuuuum… Betty,” comes the answer from above him._

_He tuts and laughs. “That’s a serious crush, huh?”_

_Grant rests his cheek at the top of his head, his hands coming down to the sides of his face. “I love you, daddy,” he croons._

_Slade’s breath catches._

_He glances back at their house. Adeline is nowhere to be found yet, and there’s no one else around either, which means… it’s fine. There’s no one there to hear. He can say it._

_Just this once._

_He turns his head and kisses that little hand that rests at the side of his face._

_“I love you too, kid.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


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